CHAPTER TWENTY

TWENTY
My cell phone did not pierce my slumber until
10:30 AM. I do not sleep in my house for a variety of
reasons, especially since this business with the hacker
began. My crypt is in a secret location deep below the
surface of this fabled island of Manhattan. That is all I
have to say about that.

I got back to the house before 11 a.m. and dealt
with out and out chaos, again. At least today no one
else from the show is dead. Tony Crakow, my general
manager for Pretty Lady, was in an unbelievable tizzy.
The police wanted everyone at the theater at 1 p.m. –
stage hands, actors, understudies, carpenters, lighting
designers, and me -- in short everyone associated with
the show. Tony was furious that his budget was being
wreaked havoc.
“The unions are already going crazy. Local
One wants to send four lawyers to be present at the
questioning, and they want to charge the production
for the attorneys’ time, as well as demanding pay for
their members.”
“Four lawyers? Why so many?”
“They say it’s to ensure adequate representation
for their members during questioning. Equity is
saying the same thing. ATPAM, SSDC, everyone –
they’re all threatening to charge the production for
attorneys’ fee as well as union members’ salaries. It’s as though their legal departments all talked to each other this morning.”
“They probably did.”
“I’ve never had anything like this happen before, Gus. Today could cost a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, with no benefit to the show.”
“Well, that won’t stand up, Tony. The police called this meeting, not us. I’ll ask Jacob to file for arbitration right away.”
An incoming called beeped. It was Matt Dunleavy.
“Tony, please send someone over to the theater and make sure the doors are locked to the outside and stay that way until I arrive. I’ve got to take this call. Nobody but you gets in that theater until I’m there.”
My powers as a vampire might be in abeyance during daylight hours, but my standing as a producer is in full force day or night. Let the unions pay their own attorneys. With all the annual dues they collect from nonworking members – the majority of the membership in the case of more than one Broadway labor organization – they can afford it.
“Hello, Matt.”
“You’re up. Good. Swiecki wants everyone involved with the show at the theater this afternoon at one. Is that gonna work?”
“The unions are all sending teams of lawyers and trying to charge me for their time.”
“Are you kidding me? They can’t do that. Can they? Charge you, I mean? You better check your contracts.”
“I’ll have someone get on that as soon as we get off the phone.”
“This detective Swiecki must never sleep,” Matt said.
“I know the feeling. Could you call him and explain the situation with the unions? Isn’t there some other location where this gathering can take place? We should have been consulted.”
“It’s my fault. I told him it would probably be fine. He tried to reach you, too. I guess he just went ahead and called the meeting. Unions. It just never occurred to me. Who ever heard of such a thing?”
“If you worked in the world of commercial theater, nothing about the unions would surprise you. They’re always looking for a way to flex their muscles and impress their membership, since they’re unable to get the vast majority anything resembling a living wage on a regular basis. Anyway, let’s not waste time. Please call the detective and ask him if there’s an alternative to meeting at the theater. The crime happened in Queens, after all.”
“I’ll ask him but he’s going to say that every minute after the murder is lost time. Murders are solved in forty eight hours, as a general rule, or they often don’t get solved at all. I will ask him, though.”
“Call me back after you speak with him, please,” I said and disconnected.
Expect the unexpected is a theater producer’s credo, but this was getting as absurd as it was tragic. I wondered who was making arrangements for the body. I knew from our parting words with the detective last night that Danny’s family was notified yesterday during daylight hours.
Patti was a wreck when she showed up at my house at noon. Her call was the one which pierced my veil of slumber earlier. We embraced in consolation, and she burst into tears which devolved into uncontrolled sobbing. In truth I was rather surprised. Danny was not her favorite person. However, the proximity of violent death affects people in different ways. My perspective is skewed by murder being my more or less nightly menu.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said, holding her and patting her on the back.
I tried to recall the last time a human was in my arms during daylight hours. Then I remembered Millie, my bride of two Gus incarnations past.
“There’s nothing we can do, Patti. You have to calm yourself. I’m counting on you.”
At this last innocuous statement she collapsed in my arms, hysterical. I got her seated in a comfortable chair.
No matter what I said, Patti seemed inconsolable. Fifteen minutes later I put her into a Town Car. A doctor who shall remain nameless was expecting her and she soon would be tranquilized. I gave the driver the address of the doctor and told him to wait for her and then take her home and nowhere else, giving him her address as well.