Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [55]
“Yes, sir?” the bartender asked.
“Scotch whisky, a double, sir, with water on the side.”
After a second round, he took a table and ordered a shrimp cocktail, and another drink. “And please bring rolls,” he told the waitress. “And butter. Lots of butter.”
He was drunk when he returned to his room, and a little queasy, which was fine with him. Without the alcohol as a sedative, sleep would elude him. He called the desk to reserve the shuttle to Kennedy Airport the following morning, but was told the hotel didn’t provide that service. The severe young woman who’d checked him in said he’d have to take a taxi. Bancroft didn’t argue. He placed a wakeup call with her, stripped off his clothing, and stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror, trying not to notice the folds of skin on his slender body that obeyed gravity. He smiled at his mirror image, yellowing teeth returning the affection. He vowed to use one of the teeth-whitening products on the market the minute he got back, a pledge he’d made to himself countless times.
“Ah, Harrison, how very good to see you again,” he said to his mirror image. “Me? … couldn’t be better … top of my game … how’s things here in the West End? … ah-hah, as I suspected … yes, I heard Mendes was leaving Donmar Warehouse … and Trevor is leaving the Royal National … see, Harrison, old chap, I’ve been keeping up with things while in Washington … how are things progressing with sprucing up the West End? … it’s been looking shabby for years … the last time I was here it was positively slummy … what it needs, Harrison, is a bit of the old glitter … that’s what I intend to bring in with my one-man show … I tell you, Harrison, it will be the talk of London … and the touring potential is absolutely marvelous, dear chap … now, I know we’ve had our little spats over the years, but isn’t that supposed to happen between client and agent? … the creative always butting heads with the money end of things … Ford’s Theatre will be absolutely devastated with my leaving … I sometimes think I’m the only person in Washington who knows anything about Shakespeare and how to present him … I—”
His eyes became heavy in the mirror; he shook his head to no avail in an attempt to revive. Exhausted, he sprawled on the bed and fell asleep to the sound of a jet taking off across the highway. Thank God for sleep, he thought, anesthesia for tormented souls.
The following morning, an insufferably talkative cab driver drove him across Queens to the larger airport, where his Virgin Atlantic flight to London would depart. Bancroft had bought the cheapest available coach seat and tried to charm the ticket agent into upgrading him to what Virgin called Upper Class. “You may have seen my films, dear girl,” he said. “I’m heading for London to negotiate my one-man show, and I’d be delighted to tell audiences that I only fly Virgin Atlantic. Wonderful press for you, you know.”
“I’m sure it would be, sir, but I don’t have the authorization to upgrade you. Perhaps when you get to London you should call our executive offices and propose something to them about your show.”
“Oh, I certainly intend to do that. But surely in anticipation of it happening, you could find me one of your empty seats in Upper Class. I’m afraid my back has been acting up, and—well, I really need to work on my show and would find it terribly difficult to be in the back with crying babies and—”
“Sir, there is nothing I can do for you,” she said. Coughs from those behind him in line expressed their displeasure at his holding things up.
“Yes, well, cheerio, my dear. I understand. Yes, I understand.”
He slept most of the way to London. When awake, he kept going over what he would say to his agent, and to theatre people from his past. It had been almost six months since his last trip to London, and that had been a disappointing visit. This time it would be different. This time he had something tangible to offer, a one-man show featuring the former great Shakespearean