The Hanging Hill

10

“Excuse me Pardon me.”

Grimes pushed his way through the standing-room-only crowd to the curtained exit closest to the stage. The house was, of course, packed. The show, completely sold out. Reginald Grimes musicals always were, long before they opened. He had been the Hanging Hill’s artistic director for nearly twenty years. Fresh out of drama school (which he had only been able to attend thanks to a scholarship provided by an anonymous donor), he was awarded a generous grant (given by another anonymous donor), to become artistic director of the Pandemonium Players—the acting company in residence at the Hanging Hill Playhouse throughout its repertory season.

He pulled open a door labeled “To Stage,” and headed up the cinder block hallway toward the greenroom, the lounge where the cast typically assembled following a performance to meet and greet their friends and adoring fans.

“Good evening, Mr. Grimes!” said the stage manager. “Wasn’t the show terrific tonight?”

He narrowed his eyes. “No. It was not. Tell the cast I wish to speak to them. Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lock the door. No one is to be allowed into this room until I am finished giving my notes.”

“Yes, sir!”

As the stage manager assembled all the actors, Grimes stood silently in a dark corner, hidden in the shadows behind a funnel of dusty light cascading down from a dim ceiling fixture. Dressed in a black turtleneck and black slacks, he all but disappeared, although there was no mistaking the sheen from his gleaming coal black eyes. He stroked his pencil-thin mustache. Smoothed his eyebrows with the middle finger of his one good hand.

He waited.

Soon the entire company was standing in a hushed half circle in front of him: Thurston Powell in cape and fangs; Amy Jo and Laura Joy Tiedeman, the actresses playing the tap-dancing Transylvania Twins; the chorus boys and chorus girls decked out in their werewolf and bat costumes.

Grimes didn’t say a word. Not at first. He let his stillness fill the terrified thespians with dread. An actor’s life was a hard one. Paying jobs were few and far between and it was the director who determined which actors worked and which went back to the unemployment line. Grimes had the power to crush each and every one of their dreams as surely as that horribly antique wringer washer had crushed his.

Finally, he spoke.

“I saw the show tonight.” He let his words hang like icicles in the air. “I have a few notes.”

Thurston Powell, the dashing leading man, nodded eagerly, pretending to be delighted to hear an honest critique of his performance. The man was a complete suck-up. No wonder he played such a convincing vampire.

“Kelly?” said Grimes.

A nervous young showgirl in black tights and sparkling bat wings stepped forward half an inch. The beautiful and talented Kelly Fagan was trembling so much her sequins were shimmering. Her frightened little toes tappity-taptapped against the hard tile floor.

Well, well, well.

Hadn’t it been just last weekend that this same young woman had refused Reginald Grimes’s invitation to dinner? Oh, yes, she had smiled when, quite politely, she said, “I’m already dating someone,” but Grimes was certain he had registered the slightest hint of revulsion crossing her pretty face as she contemplated the prospect of being seen in public with a gimp.

Fine. Tonight he would extend her another invitation: to kindly go home.

“You were late for your entrance, Miss Fagan.”

“I know,” she said, her voice a frightened bird twitter. “We had some trouble making the costume change.”

“You were late.”

“Right. The bat wings wouldn’t…”

“You. Were. Late.”

“I just missed my entrance by a beat or two …”

“No, Ms. Fagan. You missed it by a full measure. Four counts.” He tapped his right hand against his stiff left arm. “Five, six, seven, eight! You see, Ms. Fagan, unlike some members of my cast, I pay very strict attention to the conductor waving his baton up and down in the orchestra pit.”

“But, I …”

“You’re fired.”

“What?”

“Your services are no longer required. I am terminating your contract, effective immediately.”

“But…”

He turned to the others in the cast. “Let this be a warning to you all. I will not tolerate unprofessional behavior!”

“But… my parents,” Fagan sniffled, “my parents were in the audience tonight.”

“Really?” said Grimes. “How nice. They were able to see your final performance at the Hanging Hill Playhouse!”

Feeling better than he had in weeks, Grimes climbed a winding staircase to the second floor and entered his office.

There was a swarthy man waiting for him.

“Mr. Grimes?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Reginald Grimes?”

“Yes.”

“The orphan child?”

Grimes’s pale skin blanched even whiter. “Who. Are. You?”

“My name is Hakeem. We have much to discuss.”