The Trouble With Eden - Lawrence Block [41]
“Well, sure.”
“It’s not as if I had a deadline.”
“Who said it was? You know, I think I’d like one of the Greek bags. That’s where they’re from, Greece? For two bucks I might as well. You think it’s right for me?”
“I think it’s very good. Try the blue one right behind you, it might be a better color for you. Yes, I think it’s better.”
“You know, you’re right. Yeah, I think I’ll take it, Linda.”
When Warren walked into the Raparound he saw Peter and Gretchen at a corner table. Robin was crouched beneath the table playing with Peter’s shoelaces and squealing joyously. Warren glanced their way quickly, then walked on by toward the other side of the room. He looked for someone to sit with but there was no one around whom he knew well enough to join. He was just pulling out a chair at an empty table when Peter hailed him.
He pretended not to hear. When Peter called his name a second time he closed his eyes for a moment, opened them, then spun around and made a show of recognition. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” Peter said. “Have a seat.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting someone.”
“Well, sit here until they come. I suppose you’ve heard about Gypsy. You’re lucky you’re out of this one.”
“So I understand.”
“Sit down and have some coffee.”
He hesitated, then pulled out the chair Peter was indicating. As he did so Gretchen pushed back her own chair and stood. Her coffee cup was still half full.
“I really have to run,” she told Peter. “I was going to get Robin into the tub an hour ago. Are you coming or do you want to stay here?”
Peter stared.
She retrieved Robin from beneath the table, hoisted her onto her shoulder. “Whichever you want,” she said to Peter. “I’ll be at the apartment.”
Peter watched her walk quickly to the door and out. He put money on the table and gaped at Warren. He said, “I just don’t get it.”
“Go with her.”
“I don’t—”
“Some other time. Go on.”
Warren turned and went to the table he had originally selected. He sat down and ordered a cup of coffee, unfolded his newspaper and glanced idly through it. The new Hillbreth play had opened the night before and Clive Barnes seemed to have liked it, although it was hard to be sure. It was also evidently hard to be sure what the play was about, or at least it had been hard for Barnes. He scanned the cast. Three of the seven listed performers were ones he’d worked with at one time or another.
He felt a momentary twinge of envy and smiled at it. No matter how thoroughly one knew one did not wish to play Broadway, there were inevitable moments when one forgot. He had decided long ago that he did not want all that. Nor was it sour grapes. He could have had, if not steady employment, at least the Broadway equi thereof. He was a solid character actor with a wide range. Producers and directors knew him and liked to use him. Other actors found him good company on and off the stage.
He had worked one Broadway show. The vehicle was a good play, the first (and, as it turned out, the last) work of a promising young playwright. Warren’s own part was small, but that sort of thing had never concerned him.
What did concern him was what had happened to the play. After endless rehearsals and out-of-town tryouts, it opened at the Martin Beck and closed after three performances. The critics, the handful of important ones, did not like it. What they didn’t like nobody saw.
He decided it was ridiculous. He and a great many other talented people had spent an untoward amount of time—not to mention a ton of Other People’s Money—polishing a play to the point where they could bring it to New York, perform it three times, and then consign it to theatrical limbo for eternity. It did not make sense, nor did it make much more sense to land in a hit show and be doomed to play the same role night after night until you couldn’t keep from walking through the play one night out of three. There were two pitfalls for an actor on Broadway—failure and success.
He had returned to New Hope vowing never to be tempted away from it. God knew it had its disadvantages.