she was starring in the touring production of his father’s great work, The Flaming Corsage , the play Edward Daugherty had written in order
to transform his melodramatic scandal with Melissa and her jealous lesbian lover, and the consequent destruction of his career and his wife, into anguished theatrical harmony. He used both
Martin’s mother, Katrina, and the young Melissa as models for the two principal women in the play, and, not unnaturally, Melissa, as a young actress, yearned to incarnate the role she had
inspired in life.
Now, at forty-nine, no longer disguisable as the pristine Melissa of 1908, she was appearing in the play for the first time, but as the hero’s reclusive, middle-aged wife. The casting, the
result of assiduous pursuit of the part by Melissa herself, had the quality of aged perfume about it: yesterday’s scarlet tragedy revived for an audience which no longer remembered this
flaming, bygone sin, but for whom the reversal of roles by the famed Melissa was still quaintly scandalous. Melissa had acted in the play for six months on Broadway before taking it on the road,
her comeback after a decade of invisibility: one of the most animatedly lovely stars of the silent screen back once more in the American embrace, this time visible, all but palpable, in the
flesh.
“She really is interested in seeing you,” Marlene said, opening the morning paper to her interview with Melissa and spreading it on Martin’s desk. “She’s keeping a
ticket in your name at the box office, and she wants you to go backstage after the curtain.” Marlene smiled and raised her sexual eyebrow. “You devil,” she said, moving away from
Martin’s desk.
Martin barely managed a smile for the world champion of sexual fatuity. How surprised she would be at what Melissa could do with the same anatomical gifts as her own. He looked at
Melissa’s photo in the paper and saw Marlene was right. Melissa was still beautiful. When time descends, the ego forfends. But Martin could not read her story now. Too distracted to resurrect
old shame, old pleasure. But Martin, you will go backstage one night this week, will you not? He conjured the vision of the naked, spread-eagled Melissa and his phone rang. Chick Phelan on the
line.
“I saw you go in across the street, Martin. What’d they say?”
“Not much except to confirm what you said.”
“Now they’ve cut off all the phones on the block. I’m in Tony Looby’s store down on Pearl Street.”
Chick, the snoop, grateful to Martin for introducing him to Evelyn Hurley, the love of his life, whom he is incapable of marrying. Chick will reciprocate the favor as long as love lasts.
“They probably don’t want any busybodies monitoring their moves and spreading the word all over town. Anything else going on?”
“People coming in here know something’s up but they don’t know what.”
“Just keep what you know under your hat, Chickie, for Charlie’s sake as well as your own. My guess is they’re afraid for his life. And keep me posted.”
Martin called Walter Bradley, the Albany police chief.
“Walter, I hear the phones are out on Colonie Street.”
“What’s that to me? Call the phone company.”
“We’ve been told, Walter, that something happened to Charlie McCall. I figured you’d know about it.”
“Charlie? I don’t know anything about that at all. I’m sure Patsy’d tell me if something was going on. I talk to Patsy every morning.”
“I talked to him myself just a while ago, Walter. And you say there’s nothing new? No kidnapping for instance?”
“No, no, no, no kidnapping, for chrissake, Martin. No kidnapping, nothing. Nothing at all. Everything’s quiet and let’s keep it that way.”
“You get any other calls about Charlie?”
“No, goddamn it, no. I said nothing’s going on and that’s all there is to it. Now I’m busy, Martin.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Walter.”
In minutes Martin’s phone rang again,
to transform his melodramatic scandal with Melissa and her jealous lesbian lover, and the consequent destruction of his career and his wife, into anguished theatrical harmony. He used both
Martin’s mother, Katrina, and the young Melissa as models for the two principal women in the play, and, not unnaturally, Melissa, as a young actress, yearned to incarnate the role she had
inspired in life.
Now, at forty-nine, no longer disguisable as the pristine Melissa of 1908, she was appearing in the play for the first time, but as the hero’s reclusive, middle-aged wife. The casting, the
result of assiduous pursuit of the part by Melissa herself, had the quality of aged perfume about it: yesterday’s scarlet tragedy revived for an audience which no longer remembered this
flaming, bygone sin, but for whom the reversal of roles by the famed Melissa was still quaintly scandalous. Melissa had acted in the play for six months on Broadway before taking it on the road,
her comeback after a decade of invisibility: one of the most animatedly lovely stars of the silent screen back once more in the American embrace, this time visible, all but palpable, in the
flesh.
“She really is interested in seeing you,” Marlene said, opening the morning paper to her interview with Melissa and spreading it on Martin’s desk. “She’s keeping a
ticket in your name at the box office, and she wants you to go backstage after the curtain.” Marlene smiled and raised her sexual eyebrow. “You devil,” she said, moving away from
Martin’s desk.
Martin barely managed a smile for the world champion of sexual fatuity. How surprised she would be at what Melissa could do with the same anatomical gifts as her own. He looked at
Melissa’s photo in the paper and saw Marlene was right. Melissa was still beautiful. When time descends, the ego forfends. But Martin could not read her story now. Too distracted to resurrect
old shame, old pleasure. But Martin, you will go backstage one night this week, will you not? He conjured the vision of the naked, spread-eagled Melissa and his phone rang. Chick Phelan on the
line.
“I saw you go in across the street, Martin. What’d they say?”
“Not much except to confirm what you said.”
“Now they’ve cut off all the phones on the block. I’m in Tony Looby’s store down on Pearl Street.”
Chick, the snoop, grateful to Martin for introducing him to Evelyn Hurley, the love of his life, whom he is incapable of marrying. Chick will reciprocate the favor as long as love lasts.
“They probably don’t want any busybodies monitoring their moves and spreading the word all over town. Anything else going on?”
“People coming in here know something’s up but they don’t know what.”
“Just keep what you know under your hat, Chickie, for Charlie’s sake as well as your own. My guess is they’re afraid for his life. And keep me posted.”
Martin called Walter Bradley, the Albany police chief.
“Walter, I hear the phones are out on Colonie Street.”
“What’s that to me? Call the phone company.”
“We’ve been told, Walter, that something happened to Charlie McCall. I figured you’d know about it.”
“Charlie? I don’t know anything about that at all. I’m sure Patsy’d tell me if something was going on. I talk to Patsy every morning.”
“I talked to him myself just a while ago, Walter. And you say there’s nothing new? No kidnapping for instance?”
“No, no, no, no kidnapping, for chrissake, Martin. No kidnapping, nothing. Nothing at all. Everything’s quiet and let’s keep it that way.”
“You get any other calls about Charlie?”
“No, goddamn it, no. I said nothing’s going on and that’s all there is to it. Now I’m busy, Martin.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Walter.”
In minutes Martin’s phone rang again,
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