Reign (3 page)

"Oh,
brav
-
o
," Terri said, getting up and walking to the door. "I'll see you over chow."

What a little bitch
, Ann thought as she watched the girl walk out the door. How had Terri turned out like that? What had she or Eddie done wrong? Too much money? Too many privileges? Terri had never had to do an honest day's labor in her life. She had never waited on tables, never washed dishes for money, never peddled anything door to door, had never done any of the hundreds of thankless tasks that kids did growing up that earned them a little money and a lot of humility.

Being a waitress during her college summers had been, Ann thought in retrospect, one of her best learning experiences. She had moaned about it continually at first, because there was no need. Her grandfather, the president of a bank, was paying her tuition, and her father, a doctor, could more than afford her room, board, and expenses. But he had insisted, over the protests of Ann's mother, that she work during the summers. "It might be the only physical labor the girl ever does in her life," he had said.

"Oh, John," her mother had argued, "it's just not necessary. Look at me — I've never worked like that."

"I know," her father replied. "And that's exactly why Ann should." Ann hadn't laughed at the comment then, but did later, many times.

Her father had been right, as usual. Though she had hated that Holiday Inn coffee shop the first few days, she grew to like the job in a grudging way. There was only one other college girl working there, an art major from Penn State who needed the money badly. Of the other women, a few were older married types who wanted the additional luxuries two incomes would provide, while the rest were single girls, most of them high school dropouts. It was a good cross section, and Ann, unfailingly pleasant and a little afraid, got along well with all of them.

The other thing that waiting on tables had done for her was introduce her to Dennis Hamilton, who, with the rest of the company of
A Private Empire
, was staying at the Holiday Inn in Kirkland, Pennsylvania, and would be opening the fledgling production in Kirkland's Venetian Theatre.

The original intention of the producers was to take the show to New Haven, Connecticut for its out-of-town tryout, but no theatre was available at the time. Philadelphia's Walnut Street Theatre, which housed its share of hopefuls, was also booked. But then one of the producers remembered the Venetian Theatre in Kirkland. It had been the home of many touring shows after the death of Vaudeville, but had for some years been only a movie theatre, its former glories masked by dust. Still, it had the necessary facilities, and was close enough to Philadelphia to insure decent audiences, particularly for a new Ensley-Davis show, the same team that had brought the theatre-going public blockbuster musicals ever since the mid-forties.

The Venetian Theatre was over fifty years old in that summer of 1966. Although it was shabby, and the seats were threadbare, there was still much that was majestic about it. But it had never, not even on the night it had opened, looked as sumptuous as it did on the evening of Dennis Hamilton's party, and had certainly never seen such a contingent of the wealthy and famous standing within its marbled grand lobby, flanking its wide, carpeted staircases, chattering on its palatial mezzanine lobby.

The party had begun at nine, and by ten-thirty nearly all two hundred and fifty guests were there. Many had flown from New York and Los Angeles into Philadelphia, and there hired cars to take them the remaining thirty miles to Kirkland. There were actors, directors, musicians, writers, and a smattering of technical people, nearly all of whom knew or had worked with Dennis Hamilton. No one had been invited simply for appearance's sake.

Dennis and Robin stood near the front entrance, greeting the latecomers. Left alone for a rare moment, Robin squeezed his hand gently. "Will the liquor hold out?" she asked him. There were four bars in service, three in the grand lobby, one in the mezzanine lobby, and all were cluttered with humanity.

"So the caterer claims," Dennis said, then grinned. "Of course I don't know if he had this group of alcoholics in mind when he made his plans."

Brian Chaney and Lydia Marks came through the front door, received hugs, compliments on their latest films, and were told where to take their coats. "Lydia looks good," Robin said when the couple were out of earshot.

Dennis nodded. "Amazing what a seventh facelift and a butt-tuck can do, isn't it?"

"Don't knock her. She's still doing nude scenes."

"
Last Chance
, you mean?" Robin nodded and Dennis shook his head. "Uh-uh. Body double."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Clinton told me. A twenty-two year old porno star."

Robin giggled. "You know, I like this party better than our last one.”

“Closing night? Why? That was a good party."

"I know, but it was sad. It was the end of something, and this is the beginning of something new. Everybody seems happier."

"I don't know, I thought they were pretty happy that they'd never have to see me in
Empire
again . . . unless they catch it on the late show."

"You know that's not true," Robin said, but the conversation stopped there as Michael Riley came up, bottled beer in hand, to talk to Dennis, and Robin took the opportunity to wander.

She was immediately grabbed by
Cissy
Morrison, an actress who had started out in the film version of
A Private Empire
and who now shared her sitcom with another ex-movie queen of the sixties. "Jesus, Robbie," she gushed, "this place is fantastic. I mean it's like the fucking Roxy or something. Of course I never saw the Roxy, but I saw pictures, you know? This place must have cost a mint, huh?"

Robin smiled. "Only about half of your annual share of the residuals on
After She's Gone
,
Cissy
."

"My ass. I couldn't touch this place with a ten-foot dick, honey. But of course I didn't have John Steinberg investing my income for the last twenty years.”

“John's good," Robin said.

"Of course John's good," agreed a voice from behind Robin. She felt a hand around her waist and turned to look into the deep green eyes of Steinberg himself. "Good evening, darling," he said, and kissed Robin on the cheek. "Lovely party. And the omnipresent Ms. Morrison. I loved your most recent show,
Cissy
. I tell all my friends that no one, not even Lucille Ball in her salad days, falls hind-first onto a cherry pie like you do. Sheer artistry."

Cissy
Morrison made a face. "You're a cunt, John."

"I wish, my dear." Steinberg turned his attention back to Robin. "You look glassless, love. May I get you something?"

"No thanks, John. I don't want to get too sloshed to be a good hostess.”

“Never happen. You're the
perfect
hostess, drunk or sober. How's Dennis?”

“He's wonderful. He's just so excited about this."

"Aren't we all."

"About what?"
Cissy
asked.

"About this theatre, my sitcom queen," Steinberg said. "About the workshop, about the whole project."

"You have any shows yet?"

"It's just been announced," Robin said, "but a few submissions have trickled in already."

Steinberg took a sip of his drink and nodded. "Trunk work, no doubt. But there may be something good in them. If there is, we'll find it." He grinned, showing white, even teeth. "And we'll produce it."

"With whose money?"

"Oh, we have our ways, dear. We have backers in abundance, and expect a multitude more. You, for one."

Cissy
squinted her eyes. "Me?"

"Why do you think you were invited here tonight, love?"

"God, John . . ." Robin said, shaking her head.

"Why do you think we paid to fly you across this great, musical-theatre-loving country of ours to wine and dine you and tell you how marvelous your still young-looking hindquarters look encrusted with cherry pie filling?"

Cissy
gaped, and Robin giggled. "John, stop it."

"Oh, Robin, it's all right,
Cissy
knows I have no interest in her hindquarters save from a purely aesthetic point of view, don't you,
Cissy
?"

"Well sure, I mean I know it's a fund raiser, but . . ."

"Not a fund raiser,
Cissy
," Robin said. "John's looking for investors, not contributors." She turned a mockingly cold eye on Steinberg. "But I thought the pitch was going to come later."

"I'm sorry, I apologize," John said. "
Mea maxima culpa
. It's just that, when faced with this woman's residuals, my thoughts turn from her backside to her money."

"Well, honey,"
Cissy
drawled, "if you ever want to see the one, you're gonna have to kiss the other."

Steinberg exploded in sincere laughter. "I love you,
Cissy
," he said, wiping tears from his eyes. "I really do. I only dish it out to you because I know you'll reciprocate."

"Bet your ass, John. Now why don't you go get
me
a drink."

Steinberg obediently wandered over to the bar. "Is he living down here with you?"
Cissy
asked Robin.

"Yes. He and Donna Franklin, his secretary, have apartments on the third floor. Dennis and I are there, and Sid, of course. He has a small apartment right next to ours."

"What, you're all on one floor?"

Robin nodded. "Curt's here too."

"Jesus, they must be tiny. How do you stand it?"

"Oh no, our apartment's huge. Twice as big as any of the suites we used to stay in on the road."

"What about the one at the Ritz-Carlton-Boston?"

"By far. And we've got more apartments on the fourth floor for Dex and Quentin when they come down to work a show. Not to mention twenty smaller rooms on the fifth floor."

"What did they use all this space for before?"
Cissy
asked.

"It wasn't just a theatre," Robin explained. "The theatre only takes up a little more than a third of the floor plan. This was a whole community building that David Kirk built for the town of Kirkland. He was quite the philanthropist — really a very generous man. The third and fourth floors were a school for orphan children. The third was classrooms, the fourth was the dormitory, and on the fifth floor there was a hospital for the people of the town."

"Speaking of hospitals, here's the perfect medicine," Steinberg interrupted, returning with
Cissy's
drink. "Explaining the history of the estate, Robin?" He handed the cocktail to
Cissy
.

"Who was this Kirk guy anyway?"
Cissy
asked.

"A philanthropist, a humanitarian, and a supreme quack," Steinberg said. "He made his first money at the turn of the century when he found a mineral spring on his parents' farm near here. Instead of remaining a starving farmer, he became a master marketer. Began to bottle the water, added some herbs to it, printed a bunch of labels, and purveyed the stuff as 'Dr. Kirk's Medicinal Tonic.' People were suckers for patent medicines back then, so he expanded his line, wrote a book called
Physical Culture: Wellspring of a Healthy Society
, and did very well indeed. Well enough to build Kirkland Springs
Sanitorium
near his spring, become a multi-millionaire, and turn the little village of Farmers' Corners into the company town of Kirkland."

"You're making him sound like a rotten man, John," Robin said. "He did a lot for the people of this town. Like this community center. There was no profit involved there."

"No," Steinberg agreed. "Just an attempt to make himself more godlike. The Great White Father dispensing blessings on his children, just like he dispensed his little pills and nostrums that would cure everything from hernias to cancer. He was a fraud, pure and simple."

"But he built this place for the people of the town — and the school, and the hospital,"
Cissy
said.

"Showing off, that's all. You think the people who worked in his factories cared whether or not he used
Carrara
marble here in the lobby? You think they cared that those murals are by Winter? As long as they had a place to see their vaudeville — and later to watch movies — you think they cared? Kirk did it for his rich friends from Philadelphia and environs, to show them how goddamned rich he was. As for the school and hospital, maybe it was his way of buying off his guilt for all the harm he did with his useless potions."

"You know, John,"
Cissy
said, "I like you, but the thing I
don't
like about you is that you think that anytime anybody does something nice they've got an ulterior motive."

"I believe in the innate selfishness of man, darling. It's that simple."

"What about Gandhi?"
Cissy
said. "Or someone like that guy in
A Tale of Two Cities
? Or Jesus, for crissake?"

"To take them in order, I'm sure that Gandhi got a great deal of inner pleasure from the sacrifices he made; Sidney Carton is a fictional character, but I suspect that his real-life counterpart would have been suicidal; and as for Jesus . . . well, I'm afraid that my own socio-religious background precludes serious consideration of him. However, I'd hazard a guess that a death by crucifixion was precisely what he wanted. It seems to have worked out for all concerned, doesn't it?"