Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 21
The Carey Theater turned out to be an old department store, windows blacked out with paint, show bills in plastic page protectors taped along the outside wall. Bradley jiggled the door. Locked. A fan cranked away in an upper window and the sound of hammering came from inside the building.
Pushing his cycle around the side, he looked for additional entrances. A back door opened onto a parking lot riddled with potholes, weeds poking through. Beneath the hammering, music played. He knocked. No one answered, so he knocked again, then eased the door open.
“Hey, anyone here?”
No response, just noise and music.
Inside, he found cracked plaster walls and chipped floor tiles, typical of community theater venues. Walking toward the noise, he passed the prop room, probably a warehouse before the store went out of business. Racks of costumes, shelves of hats and wigs, pegboard hung with purses, umbrellas, ties—an actor could outfit a hundred optimum characters.
In the middle of the room, he recognized the beginnings of a rock formation and sand dune, the set for Seascape. A boy a couple of years older than him was hammering a section together at the far end. Suddenly more at ease, Bradley shoved his hands deep in his pockets and appraised the workmanship. Not bad.
When he approached, the other kid looked up, startled. He laid his hammer down, reached behind a scrap of plywood, and lowered the volume on a CD player.
“What’s up?” A long strand of straw-colored hair flopped over one eye. He pushed it back. His black tank shirt and cut-off jeans were soaked with sweat despite the fan stirring the summer heat.
Bradley guessed air conditioning cost too much to run except during shows and rehearsals. He stuck out his hand.
“Bradley Krane. Optimum job on those boulders. I helped build a set exactly like this.”
The kid nodded, and his suspicious eyes relaxed some. “Jeremy Fowler. I build all the sets here.”
“I saw your name on tonight’s program. You’re directing Tales of O. Henry.”
“Yeah. We double up, act some, work some.”
Bradley nodded toward a door leading beyond the room they were in. “Manager around?”
“Not till six o’clock. Production manager should be here about five-thirty.”
“No run-through before the big opening?”
“We had the final dress yesterday, everyone was here until midnight. Today’s for resting up.”
Bradley studied the new framework, nailed together out of freshly sawed two-by-fours.
“Guess some people don’t have time to rest.”
Rising, Jeremy straightened to his full height, about five-nine, Bradley figured.
“Too much work to do, too much to think about.” He pushed his hair back again. “What do you want, anyway? Auditions are next week, and I already told you I build the sets.”
Bradley grinned. “I can do other stuff. Lighting, sound.”
“School plays?” Jeremy smirked.
“A boss drama department with optimum equipment.” He glanced at the shabby walls. “Better than most small-town theaters can afford.”
Without releasing his gaze, Jeremy sauntered to an ancient refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of water and popped the sport top.
“Lighting, huh?” He squeezed a few ounces down his throat. “Ever get any time onstage?”
In school, Bradley had seen Broadway stars who came as guest speakers become totally relaxed around drama students, as if they were one big happy family. With luck, Jeremy would open up the same way.
“Bit parts, mostly,” he admitted. “But I played Oscar in The Odd Couple once, when the lead had to drop out because he was failing history.”
Jeremy grinned. “I played Felix.” He pulled another water from the fridge and tossed it to Bradley.
They talked a few minutes about O’Henry, then Jeremy picked up a plywood cutout and a length of two-by-six.
“How about giving me a hand with this?” He was obviously building the escape steps that would go behind the boulders for the sea lizards.
“Sure.” Bradley jockeyed one end of the board and held it in place while Jeremy nailed his end. After he sank three nails, he handed the hammer to Bradley. Working together, they finished the steps in fifteen minutes.
“Guess I’ll go,” Bradley said, wiping sawdust off his hands on a shop rag. “Had a maximum blow-up with my parents. Now I’m wondering which one I should grovel to so I can go on eating.”
Jeremy’s lips thinned. “Good luck.”
Bradley studied him for a beat. “You’re getting shit from your folks, too.”
“Mom’s okay. Dad just died.” He finished his water and wiped a hand across his mouth. “Funeral’s tomorrow.”
Bradley swallowed hard. He knew lots of kids whose parents had split up, but nobody who’d just had one die. That wasn’t supposed to happen until they were old. What if Mom or Dad were to die before he could patch things? He’d feel like a stone toad. No wonder Jeremy was in here working alone instead of resting up for opening night.
Staring at his hands with the shop rag, he tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound dumb.
“Listen,” Jeremy said. “Our lighting tech broke his arm last week, and he says it feels clumsy working the switch panel. Maybe you could give him a hand when he needs it. And help move furniture for set changes.”
“Thanks.”
“Probably won’t pay much.”
Bradley shrugged. “Something’s better than nothing. I’ll check back before curtain.” He put the shop rag down slowly. “Sorry about your dad.”
Jeremy frowned.
“Yeah. Thanks.” He picked up a can and a brush and started painting the steps.
CHAPTER 23
According to the loquacious tow truck driver, Bryan-College Station’s combined population was two-hundred-thirty thousand, with an eclectic economy heavy on agriculture.
“Growing fast and steady, but both towns would dry up,” the driver conjectured, “if not for Texas A&M.”
Booker liked college towns. Professors aside, most of the residents would consider him a walking fossil at forty-six, but he enjoyed the energy of young people. Their enthusiasm for fast cars, fast food, and fast-lane success tended to rub off.
A glance at his watch told him Bradley would be hitting Dallas city limits about now. With a rental car, he could be at his parents’ house well before dark. That would mean canceling his date with Roxanna.
The tow-truck driver deposited the Buick in a “waiting for maintenance” section.
“Service department’s closed,” he said, “but you’ll get first served Monday morning.” Booker eyed the new vehicles lined up for sale. Pickup trucks and SUVs dominated the lot.
Maybe Littlehawk was right. An aspiring country photographer could certainly benefit from driving a truck with ample storage space.
He walked the lanes, speculating. After a while, Aaron Fowler came out of the sales office. Recalling Aaron’s temper, Booker couldn’t deny a mild apprehension.
“Hot out here,” Aaron said, in his gravelly voice. “You might want to take a look at the models in the showroom, where it’s cooler.”
Turning, Booker stepped into the shade of an awning and removed his sunglasses. The young man’s smile looked suddenly strained, and beneath his knit shirt a washboard of muscle bunched in readiness.
“We’re not usually open on Sunday. Pete Littlehawk phoned.” Aaron backed up against a Coke machine. “Listen, I’m sorry about losing it there at the clubhouse. If you feel compelled to get even, fine, but let’s take our differences out back, out of sight. Okay?”
Booker flashed his most disarming smile.
“Son, I’d’ve done the same thing if I thought somebody was manhandling my mother. Forget it. Wouldn’t give it another thought myself, except for this shiner staring back at me in the mirror.” The photograph of iced cola on the front of the soda machine was too much for Booker to ignore. He dropped three quarters and selected an orange. “Care for a cold drink?”
A can clunked down the chute. Booker reached for it. When he yanked the pull tab and looked back, some of the tension had left Aaron’s face.
“You’re really here to look at a truck?” He fed the soda machine and selected a Pepsi.
“My LaCrosse sounded like it might’ve thrown a rod. Thought I’d check prices on your pickups.” Booker pointed with his sunglasses at a nearby row. “Those look like they’d take well to country roads.”
“For everyday use, these midsize models are remarkable,” Aaron said, leading the way and opening the door on a blue Colorado for Booker to look inside. “Extended cab, short bed, excellent gas mileage. Chevrolet’s offering good discounts on everything we have in stock, getting a jump on year end. But if you do any heavy hauling, you’d want a full-size truck. We have a good selection of both right now. Or we can special-order, get the equipment you want.”
Aaron’s face had softened around the jaw line, and his muscles had lost their edge. The Krane charm working its magic. Why the blazes didn’t it work on his own son?
Booker took a pull on the soda, letting the cold, sweet bite of orange wash around his mouth as he peered inside the cab. It smelled of plastic and new carpet. The lean, functional dashboard boasted mechanical gauges instead of the digital type. He liked that.
“Actually, I’m not sure what equipment I’d want. I carry photography gear, so I’ll need a safe, dry place to store it.”
“A lock-down bed cover will protect your equipment. Both models have them as an option, or you can get a tool box that bolts down behind the cab.”
Booker walked around the truck as they talked. “Expect I’ll hit some rough country, traveling to take photographs. Think I’d need four-wheel drive?”
“Gotta have a four-by-four if you go off-road.” As Aaron warmed to the business of showing his products, his youthful eagerness blossomed like foam on a beer mug. “C’mon. Let’s beat this heat. Our showroom models have all the options you could want.”
Before they could move inside, Booker heard a mechanical buzz that made his heart stop. Out on the road, a black-clad figure on a Harley had slowed near the dealership entrance.
Bradley! Relief turned Booker’s knees rubbery. What was his son doing in Bryan? What had he been doing for the last few hours? What the devil did it matter? Booker was just glad to see him.
“Go on in,” he told Aaron. “I’ll catch up with you. That’s my boy.”
Aaron entered the showroom as Bradley coasted to a stop near Booker’s feet.
“I talked to Gramps,” he shouted above the engine rumble. “He said the Buick broke down and you were headed here. What happened?”
Booker’s throat closed up over the questions that needed to be asked. He coughed. “That rattle we heard last night must’ve been more than cheap gasoline.”
“So you’re buying a truck? Optimum!” Despite the easy words, Bradley’s smile seemed strained. His eyes looked like cold blue marbles in the August sunlight.
“I’m looking.” Booker itched to wrap an arm around his son, tell him that no matter what the problem, they could work it out. Apologize for being such a lame-brain fool earlier. Say that any time he wanted to talk he could count on Booker to listen. Instead, he dropped a hand to his son’s shoulder. “Why not come in and help me decide?”
Bradley squinted toward the showroom window. “I rented a motel room. Thought we both might need some space for a couple of days.”
“You don’t have to stay in a motel to have space. My house is plenty big enough to steer clear of each other, if we want.”
Bradley thumbed a smudge off the chrome handlebar. “Think I’ll keep the room for tonight, anyway. Supposed to check on a job later.”
“Oh.” Standing here in the sun, with the Harley’s engine running, didn’t seem the time or place for apologies. Nevertheless, Booker cleared his throat. “Son, about this morning—”
“Guess I’ll miss O. Henry tonight. With you and that lady.”
The play! Once again Booker had forgotten it. “You sure? I reserved three tickets.”
Bradley swiped at a ribbon of sweat off his cheek. “I’ll call and cancel mine, so you won’t get charged.”
Booker’s mouth tasted sour and dry. His son had covered an acre of ground in the past hours. A room. A job. Plans for the evening.
“At least come in and help me pick out a truck. I’m on virgin territory here. Your granddad will tell you I’m no good with motors and horsepower and such.”
Bradley’s solemn face broke into a strained smile.
“Gramps swears you’re all thumbs and scraped knuckles.” He cut the engine, kicked the stand down, and climbed off. “Maybe you do need help.”
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