Philadelphia Noir

“Hey, no touching the actors,” a nearby participant ordered. “That’s like harassment or something.”

“But she’s my-”

“Gab all you want after the show. For now, ya shut yer yap, capisce?”

“She’s not an actr-”

“Lady. Shut the hell up.”

I examined the other supposed performers. Of course, it was Thomas Kelman and Becky Grey Taitt, two other personalities from my newest novel. How could they have been absent if Martha was present? Kelman with the scar that traced a silver line diagonally across his cheek, and the somber expression that turned to joy whenever he looked at Martha; Becky, quixotic, effusive, temperamental, and a celebrated beauty.

You’ll wonder why I hadn’t recognized them immediately. These three are the products of my brain, after all. Without my fingers and keyboard they wouldn’t exist. When I tell their stories, I don’t write them, I live them. Each of my fictitious persons has its doppelganger in me, and I in them, and in the other characters in my books too. Villain or victim, they and I share one soul, one heart, one mind. Think what you will about the consequences of multiple personality disorder; I embrace the condition.

“Oh, my friends.” Tears filled my eyes; I dispensed with all doubts. How Martha and the others had conjured themselves out of fiction and into reality was too stupendous a question to pose. Besides, I’m no scientist. I stretched out my arms.

“Shut. The. Hell. Up,” a burly guy with thick, hairy forearms snarled. His calves, visible beneath hip-hop length shorts were hairy too. Hirsute might be a better literary description. Or simian, perhaps. His legs bowed like an orangutan’s. “You made the actors clam up. My kid was really into this. You like that, spoiling things for kids?”

He was right about the lack of conversation emanating from the impromptu stage. The boon companions of my days and nights had fallen silent, although I was certain the cause was Becky’s declaration that she intended to divorce William Taitt. I decided to rectify the situation. There, with evening fast approaching, with the background rumble of horse-drawn tourist carriages and the drone of the drivers spewing out farfetched data about the birthplace of liberty, I would do my part as a patriotic citizen. I would welcome each and every stranger, and give them the benefit of my insights into our city and its customs.

“That’s because Becky-Mrs. Taitt-announced she was going to leave her husband. Martha and Kelman are mulling over her words. Divorce is commonplace now. It was scandalous in the mid-1800s. Unheard of, actually.”

The man glowered, moving his mouth in wordless spasms as if he were trying to lip-read. I realized a dissertation on Victorian-era mores was reaching a trifle higher than desired.

“Let me back up and explain the situation. I’m an author, their author. These are my characters. I specialize in historical novels. You may not read that genre, but it’s what I write. And I’m guessing you’re here because you enjoy learning about history, isn’t that correct? You like drama blended with fact.” I smiled at the confrontational creep and all the other playgoers who were now viewing me with a mixture of hostility and confusion. Despite their antipathy, I beamed. Showing off your creation(s), even when the moment is improvisational and the audience unreceptive, is a heady experience.

“This is Martha Beale, a Philadelphia heiress, and Thomas Kelman, her suitor. He wasn’t born into her social sphere, but never mind about that at the moment. More important is the fact that he has a special political appointment to the city’s mayor. I should explain that there was no centralized police force at the time in which my novels are set. Kelman solves crimes. That’s his raison d’etre. And Becky, well, she really is an actress. Or she was. A famous one. From England. She’s retired from the stage at the moment; her husband’s a member of the aristocracy. As you just heard, he owns a plantation in the South, which wasn’t uncommon. Many upperclass Philadelphians were married into Southern families. Our commerce was also closely intertwined. That’s why the city was bitterly divided at the onset of the Civil War. You have only to read S.G. Fisher’s treatise on race to appreciate how impassioned sentiments were, though I warn you his views are alarming. I’m getting ahead of myself. I apologize. The period in question, which Becky, Martha, and Thomas are presently discussing, is twenty years prior. You heard mention of the riots in-”

“Christ, lady, you’re a regular nut job.”

I studied the faces peering at me through the gloom. That seemed to be the general consensus. I also got the impression everyone wanted me to pipe down, so they could get back to watching the scripted drama instead of a disagreement between two audience members. The problem was that it wasn’t scripted. Not by me, at any rate.

At that moment, Martha turned her back on us all, took Becky’s arm, and began to stroll away. Kelman brought up the rear of the trio, keeping a slight distance between himself and the ladies so they could discuss Becky’s future in private. At least that’s the way the tableau appeared.

“You bitch. See what you done? All this woo-woo shit? The actors think you’re a loony-tunes too. They put court orders or somethin’ on weirdos like you. You better hope they’re not headin’ off to find a cop.”

I would have argued with the jerk, but I was worried he might take out his anger on my dog. Besides, he had a child with him. He began to trot after Thomas Kelman.

“Hey, buddy, I’ll make it worth your while. All of yous. The kid likes this stage-type shit, what can I say? Just finish up what you started before that kooky dame started bustin’ your chops. I’m no sensitive Sally; if your friend wants to off her hubby, that’s fine by me. Hey, maybe I could help yous out with that… Audience input, you know? I know some guys… Hey, what can I say? Connected. Know what I mean?”

Kelman didn’t answer, which tickled the hairy charmer to no end. “Yous guys are good! It’s like you don’t even hear me. I could use that on the missus. I can’t yak now, hon, I’m acting.” He chortled as he and his kid chugged to keep pace. Then the boy, who was half as tall as his father and a quarter his heft, began to complain about being hungry. “All right already. So we’ll quit. You wanna quit? Let’s do it.” There was kindness in his voice. Playfully, he cuffed his son on his skinny shoulder. “Who’s the boss?”

It wasn’t a question, but the boy replied with a pleased and chirpy: “Me, Pop.”

“You bet.”

The pair started to amble south toward Walnut Street while the remainder of the audience dispersed, rebuking both me and the cast with varying levels of indignation. There’s nothing like canceling a free performance to get people’s dander up. My failed effort at city boosterism made me want to slog home and return to the pitiless computer screen. It may be a harsh critic, but it’s a silent one. Despite my bruised ego, I stuck close to my mystical pals, waiting for an opportunity for a private dialogue. Which, if you think about it, could have turned into a ventriloquist’s monologue/pantomime.

I didn’t get the chance for a confab, though, because William Taitt rushed onto the scene, charging in from 4th Street and almost barreling into the parent-child duo. The electric streetlamps hadn’t yet winked on, so visibility was reduced. Fortunately, Dad spotted Taitt as he strode forward, oblivious to anyone but himself. It was clear that Becky’s husband was infuriated, and that decorum had been thrown to the winds. As he drew closer, it was equally apparent that he was inebriated. I’m sorry to say that’s sometimes the case with William Taitt. I blame myself.

Becky, my brave Becky, blanched and turned her head away as if expecting a blow. Martha squared her shoulders, preparing to give Taitt a piece of her mind. Kelman stepped forward to block the man’s approach.

“Kee-rist,” the father gushed while his son burbled an impressed: “Cool.”

“Didja see the guy’s shoes? High heels. Like a dame’s. I’m tellin’ you, this is somethin’ you’ll never forget. Them dopes that left early are missing a real good show. NYC don’t have nothin’ like this. You’d pay big bucks up there for an act like this.”

Parent and child returned to the center of the action while Taitt bore down upon his wife. As always, he was dressed in the latest style: the shoes that had caught the dad’s attention as well as a plum-colored jacket and trousers the hue of a fawn’s soft hide. The piping around his coat’s lapels was syenite-blue. Were he a few years younger, Taitt would have been viewed as a dandy. His hair beneath his hat was wild, however, and his shirt and cravat askew.

“You make a mockery of me, wife,” he seethed. “I won’t permit it. And hiding behind your Amazon warrior. Mistress Martha Beale’s no mythic queen who’ll guard you from-”

“Have done, Mr. Taitt,” was Kelman’s quiet command, which drew immediate ire from Becky’s drunken