sight…
“Gene had to have been aware of Rod’s promiscuity, though he never spoke of it, even to me. But it has to have hurt. He wrote Impartial Observer for him, even knowing full well that if it did rekindle Rod’s career, he would probably lose him.
“Rod’s greatest mistake in the relationship was in assuming that Gene’s silence on the matter of promiscuity was the same as consent to it. Some might see that as having been a fatal mistake.”
“But you don’t think so,” I said and he shook his head firmly.
“No. There’s no way. Gene is, underneath it all, a pragmatist. As much as he loved Rod, he also loves the theater. He has a great deal invested in this play, and in his future as a playwright. If anyone thinks that, even if he had been in town, he would jeopardize everything the week before an opening, they simply do not know Gene Morrison.”
He had a good point.
“How did he learn of Rod’s death?”
“The police called me shorty after nine that morning, and came by around noon to ask me some questions. They left about one-fifteen and I immediately called the airport to try to catch Gene when he got off the plane, but I missed him.”
“You knew what time he was getting in?”
Tait nodded. “He always flies Trans-Con, Flight 106 from L.A., which gets in at one-fifteen. When I couldn’t reach him at the airport, I knew he’d call as soon as he got to his apartment. He called about two-twenty, pretty distraught. He’d expected Rod to be home when he got there, and he wanted to know if I knew where he was. That’s when I told him.”
“And how did he react?” I asked, immediately realizing how stupid a question it was.
Tait looked at me oddly. “He was in total shock. I immediately went over to be with him.”
“Why was he coming to New York a full week before opening?”
“It’s not unusual for the playwright to be here for the last week of rehearsal. And I’m sure he wanted to see Rod and spend some time with him before the play opened.”
“Well, I’d certainly like to talk with him. Max and Chris invited us to sit in on rehearsal tomorrow, if you don’t mind. I assume Gene will be there?”
“I’m sure he will.” He looked at his watch. “Ah, I see it’s time for me to go, and we haven’t run through the list of people about whom you asked. I’ll trust you to make your own judgments when you meet them.”
We got up from our chairs.
“If you have any questions, we can get together at rehearsal tomorrow. And I trust I can rely on you to keep our conversation between the two of us.”
I nodded.
“Good.” He picked up an envelope from one corner of his desk and handed it to me. “Your retainer,” he said.
I took it without opening it, thinking yet again that Tait Duncan was not only a man who knew what he wanted, but had no doubt that he would get it. He was really going out of his way, considering we still had nothing formally in writing yet. “Thanks,” I said, folding it and putting it into my shirt pocket.
We walked together out into the auditorium, Tait turning off the office light behind him. We left through the same exit door I’d used to get in, and Tait carefully moved away the small wedge of wood which apparently was used as a doorstop to enable cast and crew members to get in during rehearsals rather than using the main doors.
We shook hands and I watched him walk to the corner and disappear around a building. I looked at my watch and saw it was 10:35. Damn! I missed them! I thought, resigning myself to another 25 minutes’ wait before they came by again.
Luckily—and undoubtedly thanks to Jonathan’s tendency to want to stop every few steps to have a closer look at something—about two minutes later they appeared around the same corner as Tait had disappeared. Jonathan was carrying a large cloth shopping bag stenciled with New York City, and beamed when he saw me. Hurrying ahead of Max and Chris, he came over to give me a big
“Gene had to have been aware of Rod’s promiscuity, though he never spoke of it, even to me. But it has to have hurt. He wrote Impartial Observer for him, even knowing full well that if it did rekindle Rod’s career, he would probably lose him.
“Rod’s greatest mistake in the relationship was in assuming that Gene’s silence on the matter of promiscuity was the same as consent to it. Some might see that as having been a fatal mistake.”
“But you don’t think so,” I said and he shook his head firmly.
“No. There’s no way. Gene is, underneath it all, a pragmatist. As much as he loved Rod, he also loves the theater. He has a great deal invested in this play, and in his future as a playwright. If anyone thinks that, even if he had been in town, he would jeopardize everything the week before an opening, they simply do not know Gene Morrison.”
He had a good point.
“How did he learn of Rod’s death?”
“The police called me shorty after nine that morning, and came by around noon to ask me some questions. They left about one-fifteen and I immediately called the airport to try to catch Gene when he got off the plane, but I missed him.”
“You knew what time he was getting in?”
Tait nodded. “He always flies Trans-Con, Flight 106 from L.A., which gets in at one-fifteen. When I couldn’t reach him at the airport, I knew he’d call as soon as he got to his apartment. He called about two-twenty, pretty distraught. He’d expected Rod to be home when he got there, and he wanted to know if I knew where he was. That’s when I told him.”
“And how did he react?” I asked, immediately realizing how stupid a question it was.
Tait looked at me oddly. “He was in total shock. I immediately went over to be with him.”
“Why was he coming to New York a full week before opening?”
“It’s not unusual for the playwright to be here for the last week of rehearsal. And I’m sure he wanted to see Rod and spend some time with him before the play opened.”
“Well, I’d certainly like to talk with him. Max and Chris invited us to sit in on rehearsal tomorrow, if you don’t mind. I assume Gene will be there?”
“I’m sure he will.” He looked at his watch. “Ah, I see it’s time for me to go, and we haven’t run through the list of people about whom you asked. I’ll trust you to make your own judgments when you meet them.”
We got up from our chairs.
“If you have any questions, we can get together at rehearsal tomorrow. And I trust I can rely on you to keep our conversation between the two of us.”
I nodded.
“Good.” He picked up an envelope from one corner of his desk and handed it to me. “Your retainer,” he said.
I took it without opening it, thinking yet again that Tait Duncan was not only a man who knew what he wanted, but had no doubt that he would get it. He was really going out of his way, considering we still had nothing formally in writing yet. “Thanks,” I said, folding it and putting it into my shirt pocket.
We walked together out into the auditorium, Tait turning off the office light behind him. We left through the same exit door I’d used to get in, and Tait carefully moved away the small wedge of wood which apparently was used as a doorstop to enable cast and crew members to get in during rehearsals rather than using the main doors.
We shook hands and I watched him walk to the corner and disappear around a building. I looked at my watch and saw it was 10:35. Damn! I missed them! I thought, resigning myself to another 25 minutes’ wait before they came by again.
Luckily—and undoubtedly thanks to Jonathan’s tendency to want to stop every few steps to have a closer look at something—about two minutes later they appeared around the same corner as Tait had disappeared. Jonathan was carrying a large cloth shopping bag stenciled with New York City, and beamed when he saw me. Hurrying ahead of Max and Chris, he came over to give me a big
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