balcony where them flats are. I knew the guy who found her, an' he said her hair'd turned all white and her eyes were poppin' out and even though she was dead she still looked crazier 'n hell, 'n all she wants ta do is get revenge on the man who left her, but she's so crazy she thinks any man is the one. So watch out fer her sure, cuz she's the only one who can really scare ya t' death…
They were ghost stories, just the kind of ghost stories that get told in any old theatre. And for a while, before he found out what a rummy and a horse's ass Billy Potts was, Abe had believed them. But after a few months of getting to know both Billy and the theatre, he realized that the horrors of Anzio had been far greater than any ghosts of little girls or crazy ladies or stagehands who had been dumb enough to hang themselves over some man, or fall off a balcony, or get themselves under a falling sandbag at just the wrong moment. A bunch of dopes, that was all those ghosts were, and he had stopped believing in them.
Until forty years later, when he started to believe, not only in them, but in Harry Ruhl's ghost as well.
Ghosts came back for good reasons, didn't they? That's what all the stories said. And no ghost could have had a better reason for coming back than Harry's. Abe had been the one who had driven Harry to his death. He had died aching and in torment, and it followed that his spirit must be restless, still floating or walking or however the hell ghosts got around, near the place it had died.
And why was it still here? Because, Abe thought, it wanted to get him, to haunt him, scare him, maybe even scare him to death, Abe's life for his own.
Now the damn thing was, Abe told himself, that he should just stay out of the theatre from now on. But he couldn't. He had paid back God for his sins with his Hail Marys and acts of contrition, and it had gotten rid of some of the guilt. But not all. The only way he was going to get rid of the rest of it was to pay back Harry Ruhl. And the only way to do that was to be where Harry Ruhl could…
Not get a hold of him. Abe hated the sound of that. Get in contact was better. Maybe if Abe saw Harry's ghost, he could tell Harry how sorry he was, and maybe Harry would go away, get out of Abe's head, leave him the hell alone. Abe couldn't live with the bad thoughts and dreams any more. He had to do something, had to tell Harry how sorry he was. And the only way he could do that, he thought, was to be where Harry had died.
He didn't go up to the old operating room. That was one thing he couldn't do. He knew he'd start to blubber and cry and break down before he got within fifty feet of the place. But he could be in the theatre. He could do that much. And if Harry wanted to see him – or have him see Harry – well then he could.
Abe constantly looked for Harry when he was alone in the place, which wasn't too often. Mrs. Deems had hired two temporary custodians to help Abe. They were young fellows, one of them a college graduate who hadn't been able to find a teaching job, and the other a kid who reminded Abe of himself when he had started, just out of the service. They were nice and considerate, always asking him what he would like them to do next after finishing a job, instead of goofing off somewhere. Abe felt pretty sure that Harry Ruhl wouldn't show up as long as they were around.
So he went off by himself on solitary jobs, going in to the once hated restrooms, cleaning their stark surfaces, bare tiles, a deed that was a subconscious penance for what he had done. Harry Ruhl had spent many hours, and, amazingly enough, happy ones in these toilets, polishing, wiping chrome until it gleamed. The rooms were filled with reflections, and often Abe fancied that he saw the image of movement behind him, but when he turned around, nothing was there except his own face, gawking at him from the mirrors, or curved and distorted by the plumbing fixtures.
Once, when he was using a urinal, he was looking at the chrome collar atop the porcelain, amused by his face as seen through a fish eye, when suddenly he saw another face over his shoulder and twisted his head around, dribbling the final droplets of urine on the side of the receptacle, the wall, and his pants leg.
No one was there.
He cleaned up the urine, cursing, then asking God to forgive him for cursing. All the rest of the day, he felt as though he was being followed by a playful child, remaining perfectly behind him, turning when he turned, dodging out of sight in mirror-like synchronization with every rearward motion he made, until he began to whisper, 'C'mon, Harry, stop fu… messin' around…” After that, the sensation was gone.
And now here they were, Abe and his two helpers, the night before the performance, with everyone else gone home, cleaning up the backstage area, emptying the wastebaskets, cleaning the toilets, picking up the tissues thick with cold cream. Abe had seen several actors removing their makeup with the tissues, and thought it seemed like wiping off your face, an image that made him distinctly uncomfortable, as did the mirrors on both sides of the dressing rooms, mirrors that he feared to glance into as he cleaned up the mess, thinking that somewhere in those long rows that stretched to infinity, there was Harry Ruhl and the Blue Darling and the Big Swede and Mad Mary, and if he looked down those rows of reflections long enough, they would slowly stick out their heads, and their bodies would follow, and they would walk impossibly down those rows toward him, and if he turned his head the other way they would still be there in the other mirror, and there would be no escape, nowhere he could look where he would not see them.
'Shit,' he murmured. 'Oh, shit…” He gazed into the mirrors as if willing them to cast forth their shadowy occupants, but saw nothing. He finished his cleaning, said good night to his helpers, then put on his jacket and went out the stage door. As it closed behind him, he stopped, turned around, and looked up at the massive stone wall looming over him.
'What are you waiting for, Harry?' he asked the theatre, asked the night. 'What are you waiting for? Judgment day?'
Scene 9
Friday, the day of the performance, began bright and clear, but slowly darkened outside as well as in as it became a logistical nightmare for Ann Deems and her temporary staff. Flights were delayed, throwing off the limousine schedule and necessitating the launch of more of the ungainly but luxurious vehicles. Several well-heeled investor/attendees showed up at their hotels with additional guests, who had not only to be found lodging, but seating where there were no seats available. Fortunately the last minute cancellations balanced the newcomers, who were only too happy to invest the required five thousand dollars per ticket.
Attending the performance had become a badge of honor among both the cognoscenti and the sensation seekers, and once the word had spread that tickets were available, they were sold out in less than a week. Many of the investors in Craddock, having been the first to be informed, were the first to buy tickets and thus invest in the following show. Many new investors were added, and over one hundred seats were sold to media representatives, among them all of the major tabloids. Even Larry Peach of the Weekly Probe would be there. His paper's headlines this week included, 'CURTAIN UP ON NIGHTMARE!' and proceeded to review in as gory detail as was known the series of recent deaths at the theatre, along with the suggestion that there would be more to come, and if it did, their reporter would be on the spot for the next decapitation.
Dennis slept late and spent most of the day in his suite at the Kirkland Hotel. He worked out in the exercise room, along with Quentin and Dex, and afterward the three of them went back to Dennis's suite, where they had a drink and reminisced.
'I don't mind telling you, Dennis,' Quentin said, setting his Campari on the coffee table, 'I was a little hesitant about working for you back in '81.'
'My reputation preceded me?'
'Yes – your reputation for gay-bashing.'
'You talking about Dennis?' said Dex in disbelief.
'I don't know what you mean, Quent,' Dennis said.
Quentin laughed. 'Oh, that reputation wasn't universal, and it probably wasn't well-deserved. I just heard the Ricky Scaratucci story.'
'Ricky Scaratucci…”Dennis repeated, and after a moment his face lit with understanding. 'Oh God, the guy in the original company!' He laughed and covered his face in embarrassment.
Quentin nodded. 'He came on to you and you slugged him?'
'Yes, yes, it wasn't really a slug, more of a little jab to the midsection. But I didn't slug him because he was gay, or even because he came on to me, I slugged him because he was a sonovabitch who was busting my balls every chance he got. He was one of those bastards who really wanted to see me flop.'
'Jealous,' Dex said.
Dennis nodded. 'He'd been working in shows for twenty years and never got any further than the chorus. Then here I came along and got the lead without paying my dues, and he… didn't like that. So he tried to make my
