Manhattan Mayhem

TRAPPED! by Ben H. Winters

Studio L, an unremarkable rehearsal studio in a warren of unremarkable rehearsal studios, collectively known as the Meyers-Pittman Studio Complex, located on the sixteenth floor of a tall nondescript building in Chelsea, a couple blocks south and one long avenue over from Port Authority. The walls are mirrored; the floor is marked with tape; tables and chairs are clustered to represent the location of furniture on the real set.

Downstage right is a props table, laden with all manner of weaponry. The play in rehearsal is the Broadway thriller “Deathtrap” by Ira Levin, and the table displays the full range of weaponry called for in that show, viz., “a collection of guns, handcuffs, maces, broadswords, and battle-axes”

PATRICK WOLFISH, the stage manager, wears black boots, black clothes, and a black attitude. He sits scowling with arms crossed, projecting the combination of administrative prowess and social awkwardness that is the hallmark of technical personnel.

ELSIE WOODRUFF, the director, is young and smart. While others speak, she nods and furrows her brow, as if she’s evaluating their ideas to rate them on a scale of one to four stars. When she’s speaking, she gestures a lot, as if she feels she must constantly be directing everything.

LEWIS CANNON, the fifty-something actor playing Sidney Bruhl, wears sunglasses indoors and has an unlit cigarette behind his ear. He talks slowly, with the pompous self-regard befitting a star much bigger than he is.

MARCUS VOWELL, the good-looking young actor playing the good-looking young playwright Clifford Anderson, is theatrical, even for a theater person. He is very butch to look at, with well-muscled arms and a prominent jaw, but his affect is high camp, in that way that is utterly delightful for the first thirty seconds or so.

DETECTIVE MA WONG works homicide for the New York City Police Department. Her manner is no-nonsense, in sharp contrast to the abundant nonsense all around her.

At rise, DETECTIVE WONG is standing thoughtfully beside the props table, turning a page in her notebook. After a moment, a second pool of light opens far upstage right, discovering PATRICK WOLFISH seated in a chair, his crossed arms signaling irritation and displeasure. Their conversation has an impressionistic feel, as both speak directly to the audience.

WONG: “Deathtrap.” That’s a play?

PATRICK: Yes. It’s a play. About a murder. Actually, it’s a play about a play about a murder. “A young playwright sends his first play to an older playwright who conducted a seminar that the young playwright attended.” That’s the description of the play within a play, but it’s the same as the play. Both plays are called “Deathtrap.” Very meta. The twist-actually, the first of the twists-

WONG: (raises her hand) I just wanted to confirm that it’s a play.

PATRICK: Yes. It’s a play.

WONG: So that explains the weapons.

PATRICK: Yeah. It’s in the stage directions. “The room is decorated with framed theatrical window cards and a collection of guns, handcuffs, maces, broadswords, and battle-axes.”

WONG: Can you quote the whole play?

PATRICK: It’s my job.

WONG: You’re the stage manager?

PATRICK: Yes. It’s my job to know the script. Also to organize and manage rehearsals, to ensure a safe and productive working environment, to-

WONG: (raises her hand) I just wanted to confirm that you’re the stage manager.

PATRICK: Yes.

WONG: And you’ve worked with the producer Otto Klein in the past?

PATRICK: Nine shows and counting.

WONG: Well, just nine. Mr. Klein has been beaten to death, remember, Mr. Wolfish? His body was found this morning stuffed between the snack machine and the… (She refers to her notes.) The Dr. Pepper machine.

PATRICK: Right. Yeah. I know.

(WONG fishes in her pocket and holds up a cell phone.)

WONG: And do you know what this is?

PATRICK: It’s a phone.

WONG: It’s Mr. Klein’s phone. Would you read this text, please?

(She holds it higher; PATRICK leans forward and squints, reading the tiny screen.)

PATRICK: But-but I didn’t send this. Why would I send this?

WONG: I had the exact same question.

PATRICK: But I didn’t send it. Seriously. I lost my phone yesterday.

WONG: Where?

PATRICK: Here. During rehearsal!

WONG: So. Someone with your phone texted Mr. Klein, asking him to arrive an hour early this morning, and then when he did, that person bludgeoned him to death and left his body slumped behind the Dr. Pepper machine. But it wasn’t you, because (making a big show of checking her notes) you lost your phone. Yesterday.

PATRICK: (standing up) Yes. Yes! Well, obviously I didn’t lose it. Obviously, someone stole it. The murderer!

WONG: Would you sit down, please?

PATRICK: (still standing) Ask my husband. Ask Peter! When I got home from rehearsal last night, I was looking all over for my damn phone. Ask him!

WONG: Great idea. Where is he right now?

PATRICK. Right now? He’s working. He’s an actor.

WONG: Is he in a rehearsal?

PATRICK: No, no. He’s-he’s not in a show right now. He was up for a swing in Honeymoon in Vegas, but the choreographer on that hates him.

WONG: So, where is he?

PATRICK: He’s busking. Riding the A/C train, singing Gilbert and Sullivan.

WONG: All right. I’ll send someone out to find him, and we can get this thing cleared up. (She takes out her phone to make a call.)

PATRICK: Look. Detective. Detective. I’ve never killed anyone in my life.

WONG: In that case, you’re free to go.

PATRICK: Really?

WONG: Sit down, please.

The lights dim on PATRICK as he reluctantly sits, but stay illuminated on WONG, who, after murmuring instructions into her phone, shifts attention to upstage left, where a new pool of light finds MARCUS VOWELL, overwrought and overemoting.

MARCUS: I just-I just-I mean, I cannot believe it. Dead? Klein is dead? He cannot be dead. I mean, I feel like he is literally right here in this room right now.

WONG: Actually, Mr. Vowell, we’re still awaiting the coroner’s van. Mr. Klein is out there next to the Dr. Pepper machine, if you’d care to see him.

MARCUS: Oh, my God, no thank you. I could not handle that. It’s just so, so sad and so, so weird. I’ve never known anyone dead before. My friend Rigoberto was extremely sick once, and he was sure that it was cancer. He said goodbye to all of us, one by one, and then the doctor told him it was indigestion, and he just had to chew his food more. Such a close call. So scary.

WONG: Mr. Vowell, who was present at rehearsal yesterday?

MARCUS: Yesterday, yesterday… Okay, let’s see. We were rehearsing act two, scene two. It’s such a good scene. Sidney gives his whole shocking speech and then he looks at Clifford and he goes, “I’m out of dialogue. Your go.” And then Clifford-that’s me, I’m playing Clifford-such a good part-I go, “I’m hoping you’ll take pity on a pretty face.” I love that line. Love it! It’s such a good play.

WONG: I’ve never seen it.

MARCUS: Oh.

WONG: I don’t see a lot of theater.

MARCUS: That’s a shame.

WONG: I saw The Lion King.

MARCUS: Oh! Wasn’t it so gorgeous? Wasn’t it just amazing?

WONG: Eh. Lions? Singing? I didn’t buy it. So, who was present at rehearsal yesterday?

MARCUS: Right, right, right, right. Okay. Me, obviously, plus Lewis Cannon, he’s playing Sidney. You’ve heard of him.

WONG: No.

MARCUS: Okay, well, he’s an actor. And then Patrick Wolfish, of course, he’s the stage manager. And Elsie, the director, and Mr. Klein. The producer obviously doesn’t have to be at every rehearsal, but he is always around. Like, always. But now he’s dead-I just can’t believe that he’s dead-it’s just so, so-

WONG: Sad, yes, you said. Marcus, did you get a message like this one last night?

(She holds up the phone, as before.)

MARCUS: (Reading, puzzled first and then horrified.) No. Wait-wait. Oh, my God. Patrick killed Klein! Patrick killed him! This is insane! He murdered him? The stage manager did it? Why would he do that?

WONG: Good question. Any idea why Mr. Wolfish would have wanted Mr. Klein dead?

MARCUS: No! Klein was terrific. He was a marvelous man! He was marvelous! Everybody loved him. Everybody.

(The lights dim on weepy MARCUS, and, downstage left, we find ELSIE WOODRUFF.)

ELSIE: He was a monster. A total monster. If I were making a list of the worst people in the world, I would go, first Klein, and then the guy from the church that pickets soldier’s funerals because God hates gay people. Or maybe Bashar Al-Assad would be second. And then the funeral guy, third. But definitely Klein is first.

WONG: So you’re glad he’s dead, Ms. Woodruff?

ELSIE: I didn’t say that. Death sucks. But I’m not rending my garments about it, is all I’m saying. He was a bad producer and a bad human being.

WONG: Why, then, did you choose to work with him?

ELSIE: Well, Detective, have you ever heard of money? It’s thin and green and you need it to pay for things. I live in a Williamsburg walk-up that costs me two grand a month. I need to work. Besides, I love this play. Klein was a moron, but an Off-Broadway revival of Deathtrap was a solid idea. Some other people disagreed.

WONG: Oh? And which people were those?

(Lights down on ELSIE and up on PATRICK, who huffs.)

PATRICK: I made no secret of that opinion. Reviving Deathtrap was a bad decision. It was a sentimental favorite of Klein’s, but it has zero chance of connecting with a contemporary audience.

WONG: And why is that?

PATRICK: It’s dated, for one thing. Carbon copies? Electric typewriters? Home phones?

WONG: You don’t think a modern audience knows what a home phone is?

PATRICK: Well, of course they do. But it marks the piece. It makes it feel stuffy and small. I told Klein, let’s do something that matters. I told him, you want to do a thriller, let’s do Martin McDonagh. Or let’s do a Belber. Let’s do a Sarah Ruhl. Let’s do Hamlet, for God’s sake!

(Lights switch back to ELSIE.)

ELSIE: (rolling her eyes) Does he think there’s no outdated references in Hamlet? When was the last time you ate funeral meats, Detective? When was the last time you were hoisted by a petard?

WONG: What?

ELSIE: Exactly. Just for the record, I’m not surprised that Patrick killed him.

WONG: I didn’t say that he did.

ELSIE: What?

WONG: Do you think that artistic differences constitute sufficient cause for murder, Ms. Woodruff?

ELSIE: No. (suddenly feeling cornered) Why?

WONG: (turning a page in her notebook) How was your working relationship?

ELSIE: With Klein? Why? What have you heard?

(Lights down on ELSIE and up on LEWIS CANNON. He peeks over the top of his sunglasses, as if relating a great secret.)

LEWIS: Did they get along? No, ma’am, they did not get along. They certainly did not. And listen, I’ve seen a lot of friction on a lot of sets over the years, and this was bad. This was very bad.

WONG: Sorry, wait just a moment. Your name is Mr. Cannon, is that correct?

LEWIS: (incredulous) Uh, yes? That’s a joke, right? (Off WONG’S look.) No? God, that’s embarrassing. For you, I mean. Embarrassing for you. But okay. That’s fine. Yes, my name is Lewis Carlin Cannon. I have won Obies. I have won Drama Desk Awards. (Off her look, again.) You do not know what those things are, and I am horrified. Listen, darling, I was Nicely Nicely last year.

WONG: What is that?

LEWIS: Guys and Dolls? Roundabout revival? (sings a little) “I got the horse right here…” No?

WONG: I don’t like theater.

LEWIS: Oh, no?

WONG: Whenever I watch a play, I think that if these people were really good, they’d be on television.

LEWIS: You better be careful, sweetheart. Someone around here might kill you.

WONG: So. You said that Mr. Klein’s relationship with the director, Ms. Woodruff, was a bit tense.

LEWIS: Tense? Tense is not the word. This was brutal. This was like-well, I’ll tell you, one time I was working at the Public, with Tony-that’s Tony Kushner-and we’re rehearsing, and I’m giving him some little suggestions-

WONG: Excuse me. (WONG takes out her phone.) Hello?

LEWIS: And George-George C. Wolfe, that is-he gets very agitated by this side conversation, and things are getting very hot-

WONG: Sorry, Mr. Cannon, just a moment-

LEWIS: And then Stritchie comes in-that’s Elaine Stritch, I called her Stritchie-

WONG: Please, stop talking now.

(WONG listens to her phone for a moment while the lights dim on LEWIS and find PATRICK.)

WONG: My officers are having some trouble locating your husband. Can you give us more of a description?

PATRICK: He’s a six-foot-tall man with a beard, singing “Poor Little Buttercup” on the A train. I think you’ll find him.

WONG: We’re doing our best, sir.

(Lights down on PATRICK as WONG turns to ELSIE.)

ELSIE: We didn’t have a bad relationship. He just had a bad presence, okay? That’s all.

WONG: What do you mean by a “bad presence”?

ELSIE: I mean, when he was present, everything was bad. He would stand behind me while I was trying to direct, making these small agitated noises. Actors are tiny people. They are fragile. They need to be brought along gently, like ponies. I would say, “You’re doing great, you’re almost there…” And there would be Klein, standing behind me, huffing on an unlit cigar, making everybody palpitate. He was ruining the show, and when a show tanks, the producer goes on to another show. But the director? The director is the captain. The director goes down with the ship.

WONG: So, the production was going poorly?

(ELSIE opens her mouth to answer, and the lights switch over to LEWIS.)

LEWIS: Yes. A disaster! That’s why I was trying to get out.

WONG: Excuse me?

LEWIS: This was the worst train wreck I’ve ever been involved in, and I was once in a musical about a train wreck called Train Wreck! which was a total train wreck. Although Alan-that’s Alan Cumming-

WONG: Mr. Cannon?

LEWIS: Alan brought his usual joie de vivre to the role of the coal shoveler. He and Sutton-

WONG: Mr. Cannon? What did you mean by “get out”?

LEWIS: Oh. It’s nothing. I had… another offer. Another opportunity.

WONG: And what do you mean by “trying”?

(Lights shift to MARCUS, who gasps.)

MARCUS: Oh, my God, of course! I forgot all about that! Yes, he got a call-it was right in the middle of rehearsal. Monday, maybe? Tuesday? He got off the phone and… oh, my God, it was Lewis. Lewis Cannon killed Klein! That monster!

(Lights shift to ELSIE.)

ELSIE: Yup. Yes. I was there when he got the call. We were in the middle of the heart attack scene, end of act one. It’s high drama, big emotions, and Lewis’s phone rings and he takes it. (sighs) Actors. I’m telling you.

WONG: Go ahead, please.

ELSIE. He’s on his phone, and his eyes get wider and wider, and you just know he’s going to get off the phone and say something enormously egotistical and self-regarding. You can just tell.

(Lights shift to PATRICK.)

PATRICK: He just goes (does a very good Lewis impression), “Three words, folks. Gypsy. Broad. Way.”

WONG: And what was your reaction?

PATRICK: I told him that Broadway is one word, and then I said, “Back to work, folks.”

(Lights shift to ELSIE.)

ELSIE: After rehearsal, he went to Klein, who of course was a monster about it. He refused to let Lewis out of his contract. Absolutely refused. Stood there puffing on his disgusting cigar just going, “No, no, absolutely not.” I told Klein, just let him go play Goldstone; he’ll be terrible in this show if he feels handcuffed, pardon the pun. (Off WONG’S look.) There are handcuffs? In the play? Oy. Listen, the point is, Klein thought that Lewis’s celebrity, exceedingly minor though it is, was the only thing selling tickets.

(Lights back to LEWIS, who takes off his sunglasses and stares balefully at WONG.)

LEWIS: Fine. You got me. I wanted out. I shouted about it a little. So that means I killed the guy? What am I, Sweeney Todd all of a sudden? (Beat.) He’s a murderer. In a play. Skip it.

(Switch to MARCUS, who is back in full overwrought mode.)

MARCUS: I mean, I just can’t believe it. It’s crazy. First, it was the disgruntled stage manager, and now it’s the fading Broadway star. It’s like everybody is killing Klein!

(Switch to ELSIE.)

ELSIE: You know what it’s like? It’s like one of those old Broadway thrillers! Gaslight. Dial M. for Murder. Mousetrap. That whole genre, which Levin was totally paying tribute to with Deathtrap. Someone gets killed, the audience gets clues along the way, but the solution is always more complicated than it seems. And there’s always a policeman of some sort. Usually a dull, plodding sort of person. No offense.

WONG: That’s okay.

(Switch to LEWIS.)

LEWIS: Hey, can I make a little suggestion, here, Detective Wong? You want to know who killed the guy, maybe start with the person who literally said the words, “I could kill that guy.”

WONG: And who was that?

(Switch to MARCUS, who looks up from his crying and takes a long pause before speaking.)

MARCUS: Yes. Technically, yes. Yes, technically, I said that. But not like that. I didn’t say it like, “I am going to kill him.” I said it like, “I could kill him!” As in, like, “You’re exasperating me!” Haven’t you ever said you wanted to kill somebody!

WONG: No.

MARCUS: But surely people have said it about you.

WONG: Excuse me?

MARCUS: Nothing. Forget it! I did not kill Mr. Klein. I didn’t-I couldn’t!

WONG: Because…?

MARCUS: Because… because…

WONG: Yes?

MARCUS: (leaping from his chair) Because I loved him. And he loved me, too. He couldn’t say it, Detective, but he did. It was clear every time I looked into his eyes. He would say, “Good morning, Marcus,” but what his heart was saying was, “I love you, I love you, I love you!”

WONG: Interesting.

MARCUS: Interesting? I lay bare my soul and all you can say is “interesting”? Are you not human, Detective? Have you no soul? This man and I shared a hidden passion, smoldering in our breasts like the living coals of a fire, and all you can say is “interesting”?

WONG: Very interesting.

MARCUS: Oh, for God’s sake.

WONG: Will you sit down, please? (MARCUS complies, slowly, while WONG checks her notes.) I had understood that Mr. Klein was married.

MARCUS: Yes. Right. “Married.” To a “woman.” His “wife” is a “makeup artist” and she “travels frequently.”

WONG: May I take your quote marks as indicative of skepticism?

MARCUS: He was in the closet, is what I’m saying. He was way back in the back of the closet, with the winter hats. Which was totally infuriating. Hello? The twenty-first century has arrived, Mr. Klein! You work in show business, Mr. Klein! And not television, either. In the theater. It’s New York! It’s Chelsea! Go ahead and be gay!

WONG: So, the fact is, then, that you confessed your love to him, and he turned you down.

MARCUS: I guess so. I guess if all you care about is “facts,” then yes.

WONG: Excuse me. (WONG takes out her phone and listens for a moment.) Well. Well. Okay, then.

MARCUS: What? What was that?

(During the following, the various pools of light melt away into a general wash, and we find the cast members, in their various positions, around the room. WONG turns her attention back to where it started, to PATRICK, while the others watch.)

WONG: Well, we found him.

PATRICK: Peter? (visible relief) Thank God.

WONG: And… he doesn’t know anything about any missing phone.

PATRICK: What?

WONG: Peter told my officer that your cell phone was definitely in your possession yesterday evening. He says that you were sending and receiving texts all night.

PATRICK. What? But that’s-that’s impossible.

MARCUS: Oh, my God! Patrick killed Klein! Again.

PATRICK: But-but I didn’t. I didn’t kill him. I’ve never killed anyone. My phone-my phone was stolen-

WONG: So you’ve said.

ELSIE: I am going to write such a great play about this.

LEWIS: So, the mystery is solved? We can leave now?

WONG: Not quite.

ELSIE. It’s old-fashioned, sure, but producers will love it. Small cast. Virtually no set…

(PATRICK leaps for the props table, grabs a battle-axe.)

PATRICK: No one is going anywhere!

ELSIE:… shocking denouement.

WONG: (unruffled) I thought those were all props.

PATRICK: Not all of them. My research revealed that constructing a fake battle-axe would cost as much as buying a real battle-axe. I also got real police handcuffs from an online auction site, rather than paying through the nose for fakes. (He swings the axe menacingly at WONG.) I’m a great stage manager.

WONG: (drawing her service weapon) Put that down, please. I’ve called my officers, and they will be here any minute.

PATRICK: But I didn’t kill him! Why would I? He was my ticket!

WONG: He was your what?

LEWIS: Yeah. What does that mean?

PATRICK: It means I’ve been stealing from him, you dummy.

WONG: What?

PATRICK: Why would I kill him when I’ve been robbing him blind for years?

ELSIE: (taking notes) Oh, this is fantastic.

MARCUS: Stealing! Oh, my God! Patrick is a thief! An embezzler! Hm. Actually, I guess that’s not as bad as a murderer.

WONG: You’d best explain yourself, Mr. Wolfish.

PATRICK: What’s to explain? I’ve been submitting phony receipts. Raiding the petty cash. For years. Years! Klein is a dope who doesn’t pay attention, and that’s been my livelihood for a decade and a half! Why do you think I wanted him to do a show that might draw a paying audience! Peter and I just bought a house in Hudson, for God’s sake. If Klein is dead, how will I pay the mortgage?

(A booming, merry voice sounds from offstage.)

KLEIN: Yes! How?

(The door of the studio swings open. Enter OTTO KLEIN, beaming, drinking a Dr. Pepper.)

KLEIN: How, indeed?!

LEWIS: Well, I’ll be damned.

ELSIE: Another twist!

(MARCUS runs to KLEIN and hugs him fervently.)

MARCUS: You’re not dead! You’re not dead! This is so amazing. He’s not dead, everybody!

KLEIN: No, I’m not, kid. Though I got one hell of a crick in my neck. (To WONG.) Listen, next time I die, remind me to do it in a hammock.

WONG: You got it.

PATRICK: But-but-I don’t understand-

KLEIN: Of course, ya don’t. But I been wise to you a long time, Patrick. I just needed to hear you say it! And more important, I needed to get it all recorded on my phone. (He holds up his iPhone and grins.) You’ll be offering your next round of explanations to a judge.

PATRICK: And-but-(He wheels toward WONG.) Don’t cops have better things to do than aid in this sort of-of-playacting?

WONG: I wouldn’t know. I’m not a cop. I’m-

ELSIE: Wait! Ooh! Wait! Let me guess it! You’re his wife!

WONG: Bingo.

(WONG and KLEIN embrace.)

ELSIE: I love it!

MARCUS: Well, color me corrected. Not gay at all! Straight and married to a fake policeman! God, I love this cit-ahh!

He screams as PATRICK charges past, tossing aside the battle-axe and leaping at KLEIN in a fury. KLEIN and WONG move to defend themselves, but LEWIS smoothly intercepts PATRICK, drops him with a hard left to the chin, grabs the handcuffs from the table, throws them on PATRICK, and sits on him. Everybody applauds.

ELSIE: Wow.

MARCUS: Bravo!

KLEIN: Well done, Lewis. Well done and thank you.

WONG: (getting off her phone) The real police will be here momentarily.

KLEIN: Good. Very good! Boy, this all worked perfectly.

PATRICK: This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair, goddamn it! I was trapped. Trapped!

ELSIE: (to LEWIS) So, wait. Are you an undercover cop or something?

LEWIS: No. Are you kidding? God, no. That’s all from the play Harlem Streetlights, which I did with LAByrinth at the Bank Street in-God, was it ninety-two? Ninety-four? (Everybody has immediately lost interest. They begin to yawn or take out their phones.) Anyway, Stevie-that’s Stephen Adly Guirgis; I call him Stevie-he handpicked me for the role, and Stevie said that in the interest of verisimilitude…

(The curtain falls as he keeps talking.)

THE END.

Dedicated to Erik Jackson, man of the theater

BEN H. WINTERS is the author, most recently, of the Last Policeman trilogy, which won both the Edgar Award and the Philip K. Dick Award for distinguished science fiction. He is also the author of Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters, a New York Times best-selling satire, and The Secret Life of Ms. Finkleman, an Edgar-nominated middle-grade novel. Before doing any of these those things, he was for many years a lyricist and librettist. He lives in Indianapolis and at BenHWinters.com.