Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [84]
Kelman didn’t answer, which tickled the hairy charmer to no end. “Yous guys are good! It’s like you don’t even hear me. I could use that on the missus. I can’t yak now, hon, I’m acting.” He chortled as he and his kid chugged to keep pace. Then the boy, who was half as tall as his father and a quarter his heft, began to complain about being hungry. “All right already. So we’ll quit. You wanna quit? Let’s do it.” There was kindness in his voice. Playfully, he cuffed his son on his skinny shoulder. “Who’s the boss?”
It wasn’t a question, but the boy replied with a pleased and chirpy: “Me, Pop.”
“You bet.”
The pair started to amble south toward Walnut Street while the remainder of the audience dispersed, rebuking both me and the cast with varying levels of indignation. There’s nothing like canceling a free performance to get people’s dander up. My failed effort at city boosterism made me want to slog home and return to the pitiless computer screen. It may be a harsh critic, but it’s a silent one. Despite my bruised ego, I stuck close to my mystical pals, waiting for an opportunity for a private dialogue. Which, if you think about it, could have turned into a ventriloquist’s monologue/pantomime.
I didn’t get the chance for a confab, though, because William Taitt rushed onto the scene, charging in from 4th Street and almost barreling into the parent-child duo. The electric streetlamps hadn’t yet winked on, so visibility was reduced. Fortunately, Dad spotted Taitt as he strode forward, oblivious to anyone but himself. It was clear that Becky’s husband was infuriated, and that decorum had been thrown to the winds. As he drew closer, it was equally apparent that he was inebriated. I’m sorry to say that’s sometimes the case with William Taitt. I blame myself.
Becky, my brave Becky, blanched and turned her head away as if expecting a blow. Martha squared her shoulders, preparing to give Taitt a piece of her mind. Kelman stepped forward to block the man’s approach.
“Kee-rist,” the father gushed while his son burbled an impressed: “Cool.”
“Didja see the guy’s shoes? High heels. Like a dame’s. I’m tellin’ you, this is somethin’ you’ll never forget. Them dopes that left early are missing a real good show. NYC don’t have nothin’ like this. You’d pay big bucks up there for an act like this.”
Parent and child returned to the center of the action while Taitt bore down upon his wife. As always, he was dressed in the latest style: the shoes that had caught the dad’s attention as well as a plum-colored jacket and trousers the hue of a fawn’s soft hide. The piping around his coat’s lapels was syenite-blue. Were he a few years younger, Taitt would have been viewed as a dandy. His hair beneath his hat was wild, however, and his shirt and cravat askew.
“You make a mockery of me, wife,” he seethed. “I won’t permit it. And hiding behind your Amazon warrior. Mistress Martha Beale’s no mythic queen who’ll guard you from—”
“Have done, Mr. Taitt,” was Kelman’s quiet command, which drew immediate ire from Becky’s drunken husband.
“Do you dare to countermand me, sir? This is a private matter. I insist you—”
“And I insist you behave in a civil manner toward your wife and Miss Beale—”
“Civil, Mr. Kelman. I doubt you understand the meaning of the word. You, a mere Johnny-jump-up who hopes to pluck golden coins from your heiress while laying her in your feathered nest. Here hen, hen, hen. Produce some shiny eggs for me, pray do.” He attempted to push past Kelman, who stood his ground. The scar on his left cheek twitched; his hands curled themselves into fists.
“William, please. Desist. I’ll come home presently—”
Naturally, Martha objected. “Becky, what did you just tell us? Besides, remember the pain he has inflicted in the past under similar circumstances. I won’t allow you to be battered again.” She put a protective arm around her friend’s shoulder, which further enraged