Dead Man's Curve

Chapter 1 He never expected to see Jesus stoned out of his mind. From the back of the theater, Spencer Szabo watched the stage through his fingers, listening to his Jesus drag out the big speech of Act One into something nearly unrecognizable. The kid had to have gone to the Ozzy Osbourne School for Elocution, and then flunked out for taking too damn long to string a sentence together. What Spencer had written as a touching ninety-second monologue about loss of self had now stretched into its fifth, excruciating minute. No wonder Spencer had been banned from rehearsals. This wasn’t his Jesus anymore. He didn’t know who this guy was. Slipping out the door before curtain was easy. He’d been late in arriving, thanks to missing not one, but two trains from his apartment in Brooklyn, and now he would have the distinct pleasure of making the return trip knowing the work he’d slaved over for a year of his life was being hung, drawn, and quartered in a pretentious, overheated shoebox in the Village. “It’s perfect,” the little twerp had told him when he’d first shown Spencer the theater, crammed between a Thai restaurant and a gay bar known for its go-go dancers. “It’ll add to Olivia’s claustrophobia and make her hallucinations seem all that more real.” He should have added, And it’ll make everyone sweat buckets because I’m going to cast the most pivotal role with a pretty boy moron who can’t even sing “Happy Birthday To You” without forgetting the words. The tiny lobby was devoid of life, nothing stirring even in the black-and-white poster hanging next to the box office. Spencer stared at it with a scowl. Had anything gone right in this production? The play was about rediscovering life, the joy to be had in taking the plunge and stripping away all of your fear. Why would the playbill have an empty chair in silhouette on it? No color, no other symbols from the show, though at least they spelled his name right. Something to be said for small miracles. Light applause echoed from behind the closed doors, drawing his alarmed attention. f**k. Intermission. That meant people streaming out for air and a cigarette. He might actually know one or two of them. The last thing he wanted was to endure poorly concealed lies about how great they thought it was going. He burst onto the sidewalk, his palm smarting from how hard he hit the door. He didn’t look to see who might be coming. He simply darted through a sudden throng of twinks streaming out of the bar and bolted for the subway entrance. A block away, his phone started vibrating in his pants pocket. He’d silenced it before sneaking into the theater, and though he really wasn’t in the mood to deal with anyone right now, he couldn’t handle the constant reverberations against his balls. He ground to a halt and snatched it out. He only meant to turn it off, but the sight of Marcel’s name on the display changed his mind. Ducking into the entranceway of a closed electronics store, he put the phone to his ear. “Where are you, Spence?” Marcel sounded like he was shouting, but then again, he always sounded like he was shouting. The murmur of a crowd filled the background. “Why aren’t you at your own opening night?” “I was. I needed some fresh air.” Which was both true and false, the story of his life. “Well, get your ass back here. I’ve got somebody I need you to meet.” Marcel always meant well, but Spencer was not in the mood. “I’m not interested in seeing your latest conquest—” “Oh, he’s not here for me. He’s here for you.” “That’s not any better. I’m not interested in getting laid tonight, either.” “You’re never interested in getting laid. I gave up on you actually being happy years ago.” “I’m—” Spencer stopped the common argument before it snowballed into more than he was in the headspace to deal with. The subject of his personal life was a sore one, one Marcel seemed to particularly delight at picking the scab on whenever he had the opportunity, his current assertions to the contrary. Spencer had the world’s worst record when it came to dating, or even casual f**k buddies, and just because he specifically chose to ignore his libido when he was in the middle of a project, that did not mean it was okay for his friends to take it upon themselves to counter that decision. “Why do I need to meet this guy?” he tried. “Because I’m warning you, I am in a really crappy mood.” “Because he loves Dead Man’s Curve, and he wants to talk to you about directing it.” Mention of his pet project did what he was sure Marcel had expected. Everything in Spencer went to full alert, his lassitude gone, all attention now firmly on the phone call. “Who is it?” “Ever heard of Mick Darby?” He thought hard for a minute before saying, “No. Should I?” “Maybe, maybe not. He did some really brilliant productions here about ten years ago before relocating to the West Coast. Taming of the Shrew set in the Old West? That revival of A Life in the Theatre with all the raves? Those were his. But anyway, he’s back, and don’t ask me how, but he got a copy of your script, and next thing I know, he’s knocking down my door, telling me I have to introduce you two.” “How did he get my script?” “I just told you. I don’t know. But he did, and why the hell aren’t you here?” Spencer looked back down the street, toward the theater and the face of his current disaster. The herd of twinks grazed on the corner, blocking his view. He wasn’t so far away he couldn’t return, but he wasn’t prepared to listen to audience reactions about the play, either. “You guys watched the first act and he still wants to meet with me?” “He still wants to meet with you,” Marcel confirmed. “f**k it, hang on.” As Marcel’s voice became faint and the audience members hanging out around him grew louder, Spencer glanced at his watch. It was only a little after nine. He’d planned on being in Manhattan late anyway. If this guy Marcel was so excited about was serious, it certainly couldn’t hurt to arrange some kind of meeting, though the prospect of going back and sitting through Act Two made his balls shrivel up. “Mr. Szabo?” A voice like molten metal jerked Spencer out of his mental debate and commanded every hair on his body to stand on end. Even his balls had decided to come back out and play, all because of the hint of smoky sensuality inherent in those two words. “Yes?” “Mick Darby. You have no idea how glad I am Marcel got a hold of you. I’ve been bugging him for a week to set something up.” A week? He needed to have a long chat with his friend about his love for theatrics. Marcel had probably thought cornering him on his opening night would lend a flair to the introduction. “Well, you’ve got me now.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he cringed. God, that sounded like a line. This was why he always got stuck with two-bit hacks like the Twerp and his slacker leading man. He needed to remember he was as important to the man making the offer as the offer was to his checking account. “What can I do for you, Mr. Darby?” “I’m hoping it’s something we can do for each other. Are you available to meet after the show tonight? I know it’s opening night and everything, but I’d love the chance to talk to you about Dead Man’s Curve.” “Well—” “It won’t be a waste of your time, I promise. If nothing else, you’ll get a free drink and an hour of adulation. And don’t tell me that’s not tempting. You wouldn’t be in this business if you couldn’t appreciate someone extolling your brilliance.” Spencer’s laugh was warm and genuine. Even outside the sexy voice, he liked this man. He lacked the self-importance that typified so many people Spencer knew in the theater world. “If you’re sitting through the second act of the show, you might have a change of heart on that opinion,” he said. “Is that why you’re not here? You’re tired of this particular work?” “No, I’m tired of people not getting it.” The confession surprised him. He didn’t know Mick Darby from a hole in the ground. He was probably scaring him off, even as they spoke. “I completely understand,” came the simple reply. “It’s not your fault you were saddled with an amateur director who’s more in love with his lead than your words. I’d apologize on behalf of my profession, but unfortunately, there are too many out there like this guy. I’d be wasting my breath.” Though Spencer was all too aware that it was entirely possible Mr. Mick Darby was blowing smoke up his ass, he sounded so damn sincere it was easy to forget they were in a business that was all about appearances. What did he have to lose by meeting with the man? The night was already a wash. “Have you had dinner yet?” he heard himself asking. “No, I never eat before a show.” He chuckled, low and rich. “Even when it’s not mine.” “How do you feel about Japanese?” “Tell me you’re thinking of Wasan, and I’ll even pick up the tab. I love that place.” Spencer froze. He had been thinking of the East Village restaurant, for more reasons than it was nearby. The sashimi was excellent, the venue low-key, and since it wasn’t strictly Japanese, purists had a tendency to give it a pass when it was just as good as any of the other pricier restaurants in the area. Odds were in their favor they could get in with a last minute reservation, too, even if it was a Friday night. “You’ve caught me,” he said slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “But I won’t let you pay for everything.” He grinned. “We’ll make Marcel foot the bill.” The answering laughter went straight to his head. “Sounds like a plan. What time is final curtain?” “Considering how long Jesus is taking? Next Tuesday.” He wasn’t entirely sure he even wanted Mick to see the second act of the play. “You could always skip out and meet me now.” A bell rang in the distance, calling the audience back to their seats. “As tempting as that is, I really want to see the rest of this, Jesus notwithstanding. If you don’t come back, feel free to get a table at Wasan. I’ll bring Marcel around after the show’s over.” “All right. I’ll see you there.” He disconnected with an unexpected smile. Act Two wasn’t that long. He’d take a leisurely stroll over to Fourth, empty his thoughts of the unmitigated disaster currently playing onstage, and focus on finally having the project he’d dreamed about for the last three years see the light of day. It might not happen. He might only get an entertaining evening and some good food out of it. But it was more than worth fantasizing about.