CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

TWENTY ONE
The telephone and the emotional chaos of
the morning were nothing compared to the mob
scene outside the Belasco. In addition to the more
than two hundred fifty people comprising the Pretty
Lady company, there were four mounted policemen.
Satellite panel trucks from television – ABC
Eyewitness News, NBC 4, CBS 2, CNN and Fox 5 --
were there, too. Actors were jostling for position to be
interviewed about what sort of director Danny Limm
was. Behind the actors, dancers from the chorus were
stretching and posing for the cameras.

I walked from the corner of Sixth Avenue
shaking my head in disbelief. It was obvious the idea
of the police holding the interviews elsewhere was
a nonstarter. Detective Swiecki spotted me before
anyone else and walked with aggressive purpose to
meet me. He reached me as the sound of excitement
rose from the crowd. The detective and I both realized
that the man of the hour – as wrong a description as
is imaginable, on every level in my case – had been
spotted.
“You showbiz types disgust me,” said Swiecki.
“Anything for some free press, right?”
“Detective, I had no idea . . .”
“Oh please, did you or did you not give
the order to keep everyone in the street until you arrived?”
Before I could answer, we were swarmed by reporters, some of my employees, some suits I presumed were union attorneys, and a young man who was trying to shove a headshot and resume into my hand.
“Follow me,” I said to Swiecki.
I started pushing my way through the crowd. By the time we reached the door of the theater, microphones were being shoved in my face and it seemed my name was being shouted from everyone’s lips.
I banged hard thrice three times, my prearranged signal with Tony Crakow. I could not help noticing that Café Un Deux Trois right next door appeared to be enjoying a surge in lunch time clientele. The theater door opened a crack, then wide enough to admit me. The crowd started to surge after me. Swiecki turned around and shouted, “Everybody back off.”
He held his shield in the air.
“We will start interviewing people in five minutes.”
I slipped inside, thinking that the interviews had already begun, just not with the police. As if to confirm this, Ben Cody, my press agent, stood beside Tony Crakow. There was no question who alerted the media. Both of them greeted me and kept their mouths set in grim lines. But both their eyes were sparkling with excitement. Danny’s death was big, and I could see that discerning minds planned to make existential lemonade. With an effort I avoided the chuckle that was on the verge of erupting from my throat.
Detective Swiecki and a colleague, meanwhile, followed on my heels. Swiecki took a call on his cell phone.
“Swiecki here . . . Yes, sir. . . No. The thought hadn’t occurred to me. . . There’s no need to be sarcastic, sir. Yes. Given the profession of the deceased, this sort of response was probably inevitable; you’re quite right about that . . . Right now? . . . Sir, while you’re sending a department spokesperson, could you contact the local precinct and ask them to send some uniforms on foot? The guys on horses are sitting up there smiling at actresses and posing for cell phone pictures. You could also send a couple more detectives to help out with the interviews. There’s gotta be three hundred people out there. . . . Yes. I said three hundred. . . No. I am not exaggerating, sir. . . I did inform the lieutenant. I believe she thought I was exaggerating, too, and it was not within my power to persuade her otherwise, sir.”
I could hear the testiness in the detective’s voice. His partner, as though to interpose between us eavesdropping civilians and this departmental infighting, stepped forward with an outstretched hand. Like Swiecki, he looked to be somewhere in his forties. He stood about six feet tall, was trimmer than his partner about the waist, had green eyes and a full head of brown hair graying at the temples.
“Hi. I’m Jack Gallagher – the detective who got a full night’s sleep last night.”
I nodded and Tony and Ben smiled as we each shook the detective’s hand.
“Detective, I believe I’ve come up with an executable plan to create some order out this mayhem and make this go as fast as possible,” said Tony, ever the manager.
My phone rang. It was Matt Dunleavy.
“I’m in the One Two Three Café next door to the theater. It’s a mob scene in the street,” he said. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the lobby of the theater. Come on over. Knock three times on the door. We’ll let you in.”
Tony opened the cream color double doors that lead into the theater auditorium and called out, “Joe, turn on the house lights.”
Thirty seconds later, the interior of the theater was lit. In my more than a century working in Broadway theater, I have yet to meet this mysterious fellow Joe. He is always backstage when no one else is, in every theater, waiting to turn on the lights.
Three knocks sounded on the door to the street and I opened it enough to admit Matt. Several people shouted questions but I ignored them. It was going to be a long day.
Swiecki ended his telephone conversation and huddled with Detective Gallagher and Tony Crakow. The three of them went outside together. Tony, I knew, once aspired to a career as an opera singer. For whatever reasons, it did not work out for him. However, he still has a commanding baritone voice that he can project and it was he, not the cops, who got everyone’s attention.
Moments later, members of Local One and the crafts unions started streaming into the theater. They were laughing and talking as they came in, making stupid jokes. No one would ever have guessed that this was a murder investigation from the deportment of this bunch. They all took seats on the left hand side of the orchestra section, as instructed.
Equity members were the next group to come inside. They sat in the far right section of the orchestra, babbling and waving to each other, some signaling to change seats to sit together.
“What a waste,” I said to Matt.
“How so? It’s a murder investigation. It’s a lot of people but sometimes these things are all about the process of elimination.”
“I can eliminate most of them right now. All the chorus and understudies are here. It’s absurd. Most of them never even spoke to Danny, let alone killed him. He might have spoken to the stage hands in passing, but only to be cordial. Danny was far too aware of the pecking order. He had a haughty way about him when it came to actors, yet he could get the best out of them. They were his meat, so to speak. Otherwise, he knew how to delegate and avoid dealing with those lower down the food chain. Most directors are people who lost their way in the theater and drifted into the job. Danny once told me wanted to be a stage director since grade school. He planned his career like a NASA scientist plotting the trajectory of a space flight. We’ve had more than one far ranging conversation that ended with us closing Elaine’s, the last ones there at 3 a.m. I knew Danny and I know most of these types of people here today, if not the actual individuals. I’ll be more than surprised if the murderer is among them.”
“Still, the detectives have to go through the motions. Which reminds me, I spoke to Joe Eason. It seems he has a conflict of interest. What’s that all about?”
“I have no idea. A conflict of interest? I don’t understand. Did you ask him what he meant?”
“I didn’t push it. It sounds like he’s investigating you, though.”
Tony stuck his head in the door and said, “Ben, would you come out here please and deal with the press.”
Ben looked pleased to have something to do and went right out. Meanwhile, people kept filing in.