Read Online The Fourth Wall by Barbara Paul - Free Book Online

Brian Simpson’s assistant from San Francisco; Simpson himself hadn’t made the trip after all. Jay Berringer had just about driven me nuts, gibbering endlessly about Sylvia and obviously enjoying all the excitement. I’d been right about him the first time; he fed on other people’s bad luck. Claudia Knight had been quietly sympathetic, for which I was grateful.
    When I first got back I had taken calls from seven different periodicals asking me to write profiles of Sylvia Markey. Scandal mongering, pure and simple. I told them no as politely as I could and switched my phone over to the answering service. My downstairs neighbors told me a couple of reporters had been by looking for me.
    Shortly before curtain I went to the Martin Beck. Vivian Frank had performed in Foxfire three times since Sylvia’s “accident,” and I wanted to see what kind of job she was doing.
    The theater was packed. The ghouls were out in force to see the play Sylvia Markey had been acting in when she lost half her face. I stood in the back and watched Vivian Frank do a good workmanlike job; she hadn’t hit her stride yet, of course. The rest of the cast was down, way down. Understandable. The humanoids in the audience kept waiting for something terrible to happen; nothing did. I didn’t go backstage during intermission, and I didn’t much want to go back after it was over, either. But I’d have to put in an appearance sooner or later, so it might as well be now.
    The first person I saw backstage was a total stranger, a huge man bending over the prop table. Wild-haired and wearing Coke-bottle glasses, he was over six feet tall and must have weighed at least three hundred pounds. He wore a beard and a flowered shirt and he should have worn a bra. I stopped Carla Banner, the assistant stage manager. “Who,” I asked her, “is that ?”
    â€œOh, that’s our new props manager,” said Carla. “His name is—”
    â€œWait—let me guess. Tiny?”
    â€œYeah, that’s right. Howja know?”
    â€œWhat happened to Jerry?” I asked.
    â€œHe quit. Right after Ms Markey, uh.”
    I remembered how jumpy Jerry had been even after the cat episode. “Any other defectors?”
    There weren’t. The wardrobe mistress had called in sick the day after Sylvia had been rushed to the hospital, but she’d got her courage back and returned.
    I heard someone having a sneezing fit. When I realized who it must be, I rushed over to Hugh Odell’s dressing room. “Hugh! You’re not having an asthma attack, are you?”
    â€œNo, no,” he snuffled. “Just got some dust up my nose. It’s okay.”
    I looked around the dressing room. “Where’s Rosemary?”
    â€œHome. Something on TV she wanted to watch.”
    John Reddick was in Vivian Frank’s dressing room, formerly Sylvia’s. He’d taken notes during the performance and was still coaching the new leading lady, trying to help her over the rough spots. Even with his tremendous energy, John looked tired. He was due to begin rehearsals for a new play next week, yet he still had Vivian to worry about and he had to find a new understudy.
    The three of us talked for a while and John suggested we adjourn for a beer.
    â€œJust let me finish changing,” said Vivian. “I’ll only be a minute.”
    While we were waiting for her, I decided to introduce myself to Tiny. He was locking up the prop room when I found him. “Tiny? I’m Abigail James. How—”
    â€œOh, yes,” said Tiny, his face lighting up. “You mumble mumble a long time mumphle the play gringeshockle for years mumble sniff.”
    I thought this over and then said, “Thank you.”
    He grinned and nodded, so that was all right. I tried again. “Are you managing all right? Any trouble with the props?”
    â€œOh, no,” he shook his shaggy head. “They