Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [128]
He consulted a small card on which the order of acts had been written. After someone named Diana Krall, it would be one of President Nash’s favorite performers, Washington’s venerable political satirist, Mark Russell, with Alan King functioning as MC between acts. It was noted on the card that King would do a six-minute standup routine toward the end of the evening, and those words seemed to be magnified as Bancroft stared at them. Alan King, funnyman, guaranteed to generate loud laughter with his one-liners and sage observations of love and life. Prior to him, Clarise was scheduled to say a few words.
He looked across the backstage area, saw Klayman staring at him, and stepped behind a flat to move out of the detective’s line of vision. The presence of the officers who’d questioned him was disconcerting; he wished they weren’t there. He took in others in his proximity. No one seemed particularly interested in him, for which he was grateful. It had been that way at Ford’s Theatre since Clarise hired him, disinterest in Sydney Bancroft, dismissive of him, scornful, snickering behind his back. Who did they think they were? Ford’s was a pathetic excuse for a theatre, mounting pedestrian plays with mediocre talent. He, Sydney Bancroft, had tasted what real theatre was meant to be, British theatre, great actors and actresses performing the thoughts and words of the world’s best playwrights. He hated every one of them at Ford’s Theatre, although that emotion had not been extended to Clarise Emerson—until now. She was worst of all, with her sophisticated facade and glib ease while mingling with the money people and bureaucrats.
Others backstage who obviously didn’t belong there exaggerated his unease. Uniformed police, and men in drab suits and with nondescript haircuts, were there to protect the vice president, Clarise’s friend, another politician, just another whore.
What was happening onstage was irrelevant to Bancroft. The music, and the audience’s reaction, originated from another place, vague and muffled, unconnected to the moment. He realized he was sweating, and felt light-headed. He made his way to an exit door guarded by two Secret Service agents and a uniformed D.C. cop. Bancroft lifted the large badge dangling from his neck, validating that he was entitled to be there. “Feeling a little woozy,” he said, forcing a smile. “Some fresh air will do the trick.”
The officer opened the door, and Bancroft stepped into the night air, where a contingent of police and agents were posted outside the theatre. Tenth Street was cordoned off at both corners, but the Star Saloon across the street was open, sans customers. Bancroft displayed his badge as he crossed the street and entered the bar where the thoroughly bored bartender lounged behind the bar. “Working tonight, Sydney?” he asked.
“Alas, yes. Only have a minute, need something to tickle the old throat.”
“The usual?”
“If you please.”
Bancroft consulted the list of acts again as he downed the first scotch placed in front of him and indicated he wished a refill.
“How’s it going over there?” the bartender asked.
“What? Oh, splendid. Yes, just fine.” Bancroft placed money on the bar. “Keep the change, old boy. And remember me. Remember Sydney Bancroft.”
The bartender laughed. “How could I ever forget you, Sydney?”
Bancroft retraced his steps to the theatre’s rear door. A display of his pass gained access to the backstage. Mark Russell was finishing his performance, standing at the piano and delivering a final satirical ditty about Washington and its politicians.
Klayman had taken advantage of a break in the action to cross behind the sets to the opposite side of the stage, leaving Mo Johnson where they’d originally stood. He’d been looking for Bancroft but hadn’t seen him. Now, he saw the actor come into the theatre and wondered where he’d been. Across the street at the Star Saloon? Like John Wilkes Booth fortifying himself before shooting Lincoln? That fanciful notion came and went as he observed Bancroft disappear inside a room; PROPS was crudely written on a sheet