Little Did I Know: A Novel (15 page)

I ran to take a quick shower and put on khaki slacks, a clean, white T-shirt, and my blue blazer. I pulled the Mustang onto to the highway moments later and drove as if chased by enemy agents. I arrived at Holly’s State Street office with just minutes to spare.

His assistant, Samantha, offered me coffee and showed me into a conference room large enough to kick a field goal. Moments later Holly arrived, looking presidential in an expensive blue suit, red power tie, and buffed, black wingtips. His well-cropped gray hair was parted neatly on the side.

I told him of my predicament and he was clearly amused by my chutzpah. He asked in a strictly business manner if I understood that whatever money he chose to give me was an obligation of mine to repay and that it was a gentlemen’s arrangement he would never call to collect. However, if I failed him I should never come calling again.

I looked him in the eye and answered with a firm and confident, “Yes, sir.”

He excused himself for a minute and returned promptly. “I don’t mean to be rude, Sam but I have a meeting on Federal Street.” He handed me an envelope and added, “This is the best I can do, son. Good luck.”

I sat in the regal conference room for some time, afraid to open the envelope. Samantha brought me more coffee and I finally steeled myself to look. Inside was a check for $10,000! They were the prettiest four zeros I had ever seen.

Despite my good fortune, the weather that Tuesday night failed to reflect my mood. A persistent, chilled precipitation hadn’t let up all day, and my phone booth office was an inch deep in water. Veronica made friendly visits offering encouragement and coffee. Each time she came by I wanted to talk to her, to try to edge closer. However, I had a mission to accomplish, so I left those thoughts for another day. I had $19,000 in commitments and twenty-four hours until checkmate.

I was tired. Even good news and good people like Mr. Holly cause fatigue. The calls I made now lacked a certain zip, and the results matched. By nine o’clock I had raised $300, but it had been a hard go and I’d become dispirited. I was ready to pack it in and head for the bottom of a shot glass when a name came to mind that wasn’t on the list.

I dropped a nickel in the slot, asked for directory assistance in Los Angeles, and requested the number for an Irving Podrake. Irving was a distant relative. He had left the shtetl and the pogroms before he was a teenager. He had found his way to Southern California and a series of menial jobs that come without an education or family. Irving moved on to real estate management, then ownership, and then great wealth. I had been sent to visit him when I was about thirteen and had spent a week in his astounding Beverly Hills home.

Irving was tan, tall, and dapper. He drove a Bentley and had a beautiful, younger third wife. Still, for the week I was with him I sensed intense loneliness, and he treated me like a surrogate son while I was there. We went to a Dodger game and Disneyland on a VIP pass, and he took me shopping. When it was time for me to head back east, he offered me a big check to pay for college, but I refused, thinking the size of the gift inappropriate.

Christina, Mrs. Podrake, answered my call. She was friendly and even curious about how I had been and what I was doing “now that I was truly a young man.” She mentioned that Irving had always liked me and he remembered the time I had spent with them fondly. That’s when she informed me that Irving had died more than two years ago. I offered far-too-tardy condolences and she asked me why I had called. Though I felt awkward doing so, I explained. She told me Irving would have wanted to help; she would send me $3,000. I found the entire experience humbling.

At 6 a.m. on Wednesday, I sat in the Garden Diner and assessed my situation while drinking my usual concoction of coffee, cream, and heart-disease quantities of sugar. I read the sports page. There had been a triple play in the Angel-Indian game, which I took as a good omen. Unusual events on the diamond tended to lead to good things in life. Still, with only eleven names left on my list, it was difficult to see how I wasn’t going to come up way short.

I drank a fourth cup of java and flirted with Eleanor, a married waitress in her thirties who was a lifer at the Garden Diner. I had a desire for ice cream, so I ordered some. Despite the early hour, Eleanor brought me a double scoop of vanilla, and as I ate an idea took shape in my crowded brain.

Garden’s Ice Cream Shoppe was just down the road and I was there in minutes. The place was a mere shack established in 1912, but it was as much a part of Plymouth as the
Mayflower
and the Rock. Other than the Barrows, the Garden family was the most powerful in town.

I sat in the Mustang with my yellow pad and started to run some numbers. If we sold every seat in the Priscilla Beach Theatre this summer, it would result in forty thousand drives by the ice cream stand. To be more conservative, I assumed only 50 percent capacity and that half those people would have bought ice cream even if they weren’t going to a show. I felt it reasonable to project that the theater would generate about seven thousand cones or, even better, more expensive shakes and sundaes. Additionally, the fifty staff members PBT employed would find their way to the old Shoppe throughout the summer, as well as their families when they came to visit. Therefore, if Garden gave me the remaining money I needed, he would be ahead of the game. I thought this was so creative and brilliant, I couldn’t imagine it not working. I spent some time writing it all up with charts and calculations. At three I met with Papa Garden.

He held court in a small office behind a cluttered desk. He was huge, with ragged hair, snaggled teeth, and a tough, raspy voice. But he appeared friendly and he shook my hand while looking me directly in the eye. He offered me a seat and asked why I had come to see him. I told him the whole story, from Tufts to Barrows to my emergency search for funds. I showed him my charts and he responded with a grin that grew quickly into a belly laugh.

I sat bewildered, wondering if he thought I a fool or a visionary.

“You make that shit up, kiddo? Do you actually believe it?”

“Yes, I think it’s viable. You’ll sell more ice cream if you take my deal.”

He nodded slowly. “You want coffee? A shake? Burger?”

“No thank you, Mr. Garden.”

“Call me Papa.”

“Still no thank you, Papa.”

“Anything?”

“I want you to lend me seven thousand dollars and take my deal.”

Again he grinned and it turned to laughter.

“You are quite a kid, kiddo.”

“Yes, sir. I am that, sir.”

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a checkbook. My heart was racing.

“How much?” he asked.

“Seven thousand three hundred and forty-one dollars.”

He wrote the check and handed it to me. “Do me four things, kid.”

“Anything, sir.”

“Don’t tell anyone I did this, put on some good shows, pay me back, and on the way out try the orange pineapple. It’s new.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

I shook his huge mitt and walked out into the midday sun, which I was sure was shinning just for me.

Wednesday night around seven, I met the group back at the hotel. We were giddy with excitement as we tallied our booty. The checks had all arrived overnight through a new service called Federal Express that actually delivered packages overnight—what a crazy idea, huh?

I had raised $31,700. We were in business. However, within seconds our unbridled elation was shot dead by something Secunda pointed out: the checks would take days to clear and our deal with the Barrows Foundation was for certified funds or cash. The whole episode had been a charade. We were done.

I looked at a room full of long faces. “We will reconnoiter here tomorrow at ten a.m.,” I said. “We’ll figure something out.”

Then everyone left to go shoot themselves.

At 9:45 the next morning there was a loud knock on my door. It was Sidney, Veronica’s uncle from the White Cliffs.

“How big are your balls?” he asked, entering the room without invitation.

“My balls?”

“Yeah, your testicles, your balls.
Guts
, my boy.”

“I’m proud to say my testicles are very large.”

“Good, then follow me. We still have time to find your rabbit.”

I followed Sidney’s old Buick as it weaved down a dirt road heading east toward the ocean. He was tearing it out at full throttle and the dust was overwhelming. Minutes later we pulled up to a stone house that verged on being a mansion. Sitting in front was a late-sixties, black Cadillac convertible, a late-model red Corvette, and a wagon of some sort with tinted windows that prevented you from seeing inside. We got out of our cars and were greeted by a guy named Chance. I figured he was serving as a bodyguard here but that his regular job was as the offensive line for the Boston Patriots.

Chance spoke briefly with Sidney and then he told us to wait. Within moments, a fortyish tough guy came out and asked what we wanted.

“The kid has almost thirty-two thousand dollars in checks. What’s the vig on giving him 30K cash on what he’s got?”

The tough guy ran numbers in his head. “These checks are good?”

“Yeah. You got me if they turn rubber.”

“Okay, then thirty-two thousand five hundred.”

My heart sank, a feeling that was becoming tiresome.

“Deal,” Sidney responded quickly. He took my $31,700 in checks then reached into his pocket and counted out eight crisp hundred-dollar bills. Chance went inside with my checks and Sidney’s cash. Ten minutes later, he returned carrying a beat-up duffle.

“There’s 30K in cash in there,” the tough guy said. “I don’t care what you use it for. Your checks bounce, I come after you, which I don’t want to have to do. Let’s just be friends, it’s better that way. The name is Colon, Johnny Colon.” Incongruously, he offered me a handshake and a smile. “Nice doing business with you, kid. Good luck.”

As we drove away toward Barrows to deliver the gelt, it hit me hard and true: I was officially in the theater business.

I
moved into the red house at the theater compound the following morning. Davey had arranged for Susan Golden to deliver all the keys and appropriate paperwork on our lease. Most importantly, she promised the power would be on so we could find our light, which was very important to stage work. We had paid up with time to spare, so from now through September 15, PBT was our new home.

Susan said she’d meet everyone there at 9 a.m. As I pulled into the driveway fifteen minutes early, she was already holding court with my posse. They were all sitting around the redwood picnic table enjoying the breakfast goodies she had brought, seemingly as a gesture of goodwill. There were fresh muffins, warm croissants, fresh OJ, and enough pastries to give a diabetic a seizure. She was also pouring expensive champagne in honor of the occasion.

Susan wore her auburn hair in a straight ponytail with a trace of makeup. She had on a backless sundress that fit her body beautifully, but was more appropriate for a much younger woman. Nevertheless, her bones were clearly worth jumping, and perhaps Davey had had the privilege last night.

We toasted, and she wished us all well. “Anything you guys need, don’t hesitate to call.” Then she bade farewell with quick hugs, kisses on the cheeks, and an occasional formal handshake. Not one of us missed that she lingered a while when saying goodbye to Davey and that her hand spent a great deal of familial time on his butt.

When she left, James lit a joint and passed it around, as if we all weren’t high enough. “This is to set the mood,” he said. “Listen up.”

James had rigged two enormous speakers and mounted them on the icehouse office. He moved dramatically to an extension cord that ran from inside the office to the compound, and with a flourish married the speakers to the outlet. Music filled the morning air. The decibel level made the buildings shake, and chased flocks of birds out of the tall grass and from under the eaves of the two large houses that skirted the compound. It was the overture from
Man of La Mancha
. This was lyrical, powerful music, filled with hope and promise. It was quintessential show music, and as we passed around James’s pot we all got goose bumps. He pumped the volume even higher, and the orchestra finished with a rousing version of “The Impossible Dream.” We giggled, laughed, and sang along with outsized enthusiasm. Several of us were off key, but it all sounded just perfect to me.

JB then got us to work. She pulled out several yellow legal pads that listed everyone’s assignments and started barking out orders.

There was so much to do. The houses were a disaster. They needed cleaning and a boatload of paint. The plumbing and heating seemed fine, but there were roaches and dead rodents; JB said she’d prefer to pee in her pants than use any of the toilets. We needed beds, dressers, and kitchen fixtures. The ovens worked, but they emitted an odor that reeked of death. She said that while inspecting the red house she’d found it difficult to breathe. She was not alarmed, but thought the walls were either filled with angry ghosts or animals, perhaps skunks or a large community of raccoons.

JB had a list of vendors, starting with the gas company for the hot water heaters and cleaning supplies. She was calling in troops from Boston tomorrow to assist with the cleanup, including actresses who’d be with us for the summer, production staff, and friends who simply wanted to help the cause. She told Secunda and me to go to Boston and assemble our tech staff with Bryan Duncan. He was going to design sets and lights, and Mike Kasen was going to act as the resident technical director making sure things were built on time and that everything worked properly. Mary Holly was going do the costumes, which was a double win for us. Mary was an occasional girlfriend of Secunda, which kept things interesting, but most important to me was that she could really sing; she would play all the ingenue roles throughout the season. JB had arranged for audition announcements to be distributed at every college and university within a hundred miles of Boston and set up free audition space with Tufts.