Iron Cast (19 page)

He grimaced, and his hand hovered briefly at his side, where his stitches were. The slight movement was amplified in the mirrors, spiraling into perpetuity.

“She saw my gun this afternoon, and she knows that I got hurt. She's worried.”

“Well, I would be too, if my son the hired gunman was walking around with the words
I'm armed, arrest me
practically written on his forehead.” Her voice shook a little with the forced joke.

He scowled at her, but without malice. “How about you do your job and I'll do mine,” he said.

“Only if you'll admit that I do mine so much better than you do yours.”

He rolled his eyes and reached past her for the doorknob.

“I won't tell anyone,” Corinne said before he turned it. “I won't lie for you, if Ada or Johnny asks, but I won't tell anyone.”

Her statement gave him pause, though she couldn't decipher whether he had expected more or less from her. They were toe-to-toe, and she could practically feel the tension coiled inside him. His expression was inscrutable in the dusky light.

“Thank you,” he said at last. He opened the door, and they both went inside to wait for Saint.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Mythic Theatre was a newer theater in Boston, though it didn't look it. On the outside it was borderline derelict, with a marquee that dropped letters during the lightest breeze and glass doors that had long since been painted over, because the Gretskys couldn't be bothered washing them. On performance nights the crowd was inevitably thin, dissuaded by the shabby carpets and distinct smell of mildew that clung around the place. For the most part it was overlooked. The Colonial had a grander, more palatable interior, and the Orpheum put on more exciting shows. No one was very interested in plays even critics had never heard of, with titles like
Darkness in a Candle Shop
or
Star-Crossed and Long-Lost,
especially when the Colonial was running a new musical revue and the Orpheum had a brand-new cast of vaudeville girls.

The Mythic's current production was apparently entitled
Once in a Red Moon,
though a recent wind had changed it to
Once in a Red Moo.

“You know, I've never seen a show here,” Corinne said.

“Can't imagine why not,” Gabriel said behind her.

“I've read this script before,” Saint said. “It's good. You should give it a chance.”

“How have you read it?” Corinne said, casting him a suspicious glance. “I can't even get you to read a sonnet.”

Saint ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “James gave it to me,” he muttered.

Corinne laughed. “Well then, excuse me if I don't exactly trust your judgment on the matter.”

The Mythic box office entailed a lockbox on the counter with a slot in the top for money, accompanied by a handwritten sign that read:

Admission: $3.50

God is watching
.

There was a roll of blue tear-off tickets beside the box. Corinne stood at the window for a while, pondering whether or not God was truly interested in the financial security of the Mythic Theatre. Finally Saint made a sound of exasperation and shoved enough cash for all three of them into the slot.

“For an artist you are not very supportive of the arts,” Saint told her.

“I don't see how pretending to be someone else on a stage is art,” Corinne said. “It's not as if they write the plays themselves.”

“You probably shouldn't mention that to Madeline or James,” he said.

The theater had a better audience than Corinne would have expected, which wasn't to say that it was a particularly large turnout. They took their seats as the curtain rose—a slow, juddering affair. Madeline was alone center stage. She flung her arms open and cried toward the rafters about her woebegone state. With her eyelids painted a dramatic purple and her lips a bright red, she stood out against the dark backdrop like an exaggerated flower.

Madeline was soon joined by her forbidden lover, who wore a midnight-blue doublet that Corinne was pretty sure was anachronistic to the vaguely Victorian setting. His golden hair was like a halo under the stage lights.

“That's James,” Corinne whispered to Gabriel.

The paramours talked for a while of their ill-fated romance, her upcoming wedding, and other clichéd plot devices that Corinne didn't bother remembering. Eventually the lover, spurned by his lady, exited the stage with a flourish. The lady had time to bemoan her loss for only a few seconds before her fiancé appeared, paunchy and black bearded and stomping a lot. Madeline widened her eyes in a show of terror that was glaringly obvious for those in the farthest row of the audience.

Gabriel shifted in his seat to whisper to Corinne, his breath tickling her earlobe. “This is absurd.”

Corinne wanted to agree wholeheartedly, but she could see Saint watching them from the corner of his eye.

“Don't let their stage demeanor and this awful script fool you,” Corinne whispered back. “James and Madeline are two of the best thespians Boston has ever seen.”

Gabriel didn't reply, but his expression stated clearly that he didn't see how that was possible. Corinne gestured furtively toward the stage, where the lady's dastardly fiancé was bellowing about the cost of virtue or some such nonsense.

“Does he look a bit like James to you?” Corinne asked, leaning into Gabriel.

“What? No.”

“Silly me. You're right, of course. They look nothing alike. He's obviously a completely different person.”

She watched Gabriel's eyes narrow as he stared at the thundering fiancé, whose soon-to-be wife wilted like a womanly flower in the corner of the stage. After a minute he leaned toward her again.

“Are you saying—?”

“I'm saying that Madeline and James always put on obscure
plays because they have to find scripts that never feature more than two actors on the stage at the same time.”

There weren't many thespians with enough skill to withstand glaring stage lights and a captive audience. The ones who could project anything better than a fair likeness of their subject depended mostly on confidence and poor lighting to fool people. When James and Madeline performed onstage, the real show was the one the audience didn't know about.

Gabriel's expression had turned slightly incredulous, and he didn't offer further comment about the travesty of a love story that was unfolding. Hemopaths who manifested with a thespian talent were considered the most dangerous by regs—and even by their fellow hemopaths. If the thespian was skilled enough, only another thespian could see through the impersonation. Madeline and James both cycled through a plethora of characters throughout the play, but even when she concentrated, Corinne couldn't see any resemblance. There was no evidence that the Mythic employed only two actors rather than ten. She might not care for the Gretskys' productions, but she had to give credit where credit was due. Johnny had tried to hire the couple countless times throughout the years, offering generous cuts of any con they helped run, but they always refused. Neither of them cared for Boston's seedy underworld. The Mythic was their only stage.

The play went on for almost three hours, with a brief intermission. It ended with Madeline's character jumping into a river offstage—either to drown herself or to swim to freedom. Corinne had lost track of what was happening by that point. There was no final bow, and the audience was left applauding at the lowered curtain.

Corinne led the way through the threadbare lobby and the
dilapidated front doors, around to the theater's rear alley, where a few crates rotted alongside piles of debris. Some rats scattered at their approach. Corinne banged on the huge wooden door. After a few minutes, interspersed with more banging from Corinne and the occasional comment from Saint that annoying them wasn't going to make them more likely to help, an eye-level panel in the door slid open.

Two brown eyes appeared, paired with dark eyebrows and a delicate nose.

“No autographs,” she said.

“Madeline, this is important. Let us in,” Corinne said.

“You know the rules,” she said, eyes narrowing. “No one is allowed backstage. No one.”

She started to slide the panel shut.

“Wait!” Corinne said, and dragged Saint over. Despite his protestations, she shoved his face toward Madeline's. “Look who I brought.”

“Sebastian!” Madeline cried warmly. “How are you? I know someone who's been dying to see you.” She seemed to catch herself and frown. “But rules are rules. No one is allowed back here.”

“I've been backstage loads of times,” Saint said.

“Shh,” she hissed.

“It really is important,” he said. “Please, Maddy?”

She considered for a few moments, then threw open the door. She was radiant in a white silk robe, even with her gaudy stage makeup still plastered on her face.

“You might have at least brought flowers,” she said, propping her hand on her hip.

“It's the middle of winter,” Corinne told her.

Madeline sighed dramatically and said something about the
secrets within being a great and terrible burden that they must bear in silence for all their days, and then she stepped aside to let them pass.

Corinne didn't see anything particularly burdensome in the backstage area. It was mostly creaky, splintery wood and dark drapes. There were chests full of costumes and props lining the walls, and a few half-finished sets were leaning against walls and doorways. Madeline squeezed beneath one backdrop of a starry night and led them into a room that was furnished with dressing tables and a blue velvet sofa. James was reclining on the sofa, still in costume, with his feet propped on one arm and a stack of papers resting over his face.

“Aren't you supposed to be making notes?” Madeline asked.

He didn't move.

“I'm contemplating my character's intonation,” he replied, his voice muffled by the pages.

“Well, stop it. We have guests.”

He sat up, letting the script slide into his lap. He'd mopped most of the powder from his face, leaving only a smudge of red at the corner of his mouth where Madeline's character had kissed him in tragic farewell.

“So much for the unbreakable rule,” he said, his languorous gaze moving across the company. When he saw Saint, his lips curled into a smile. “Hey there.”

“Hey there,” Madeline mimicked, and shoved his legs off the sofa so that she could sit down. “You might at least put some effort into it, James. You're not nearly as irresistible as you think you are, you know.”

“The charm is more in the presentation than the actual words, I think,” he said, still smiling at Saint, who was by now flushed bright pink.

“Well, go on, sit down,” Madeline said to the others, waving at the dressing-table chairs and a second sofa.

“Aren't we going to have introductions?” James asked, leaning back and stretching out his long legs. He was looking at Gabriel, who had just sat down next to Corinne on the sofa. “Has anyone ever told you that you would make a perfect Cassius?”

“I can't say they have,” Gabriel replied.

“He just means you look likely to stab someone,” Corinne said.

James smiled serenely but did not contradict her. “I'm James Gretsky. Madeline's husband.”

Gabriel quirked an eyebrow. “Gabriel Stone” was all he said.

“Well, now that the tedium is over,” Madeline said, “is someone going to tell us what's so damned important you have to interrupt our extremely crucial post-performance session?”

Corinne explained the situation to them as succinctly as possible, though she neglected the fact that Johnny had left the night before and still hadn't returned. She nudged Saint, who took the sketch out of his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it across to James. The pair hunched over it, their fair and dark heads touching.

“I don't recognize him,” James said.

“I do,” said Madeline. “Can't put my finger on it, though.”

“Think harder,” Corinne suggested.

Madeline shot her a glare, and James leaned over to study the picture again.

“Oh,” he said. “I see it now. Looks just like—”

“Exactly,” Madeline said.

“Care to share with the rest of us?” Corinne asked.

“Babe Ruth,” Madeline said with a smug smile.

Gabriel laughed shortly.

“Who's that?” Corinne asked.

“Pitcher for the Red Sox,” Gabriel said. “The resemblance is uncanny, now that you mention it.”

“What are the chances he's given up baseball in favor of crime?” James said musingly.

Corinne stood up. “I'm glad you can all laugh about it,” she said. “Meanwhile two men are dead.”

“No need to be a wet blanket,” Madeline said, fanning herself idly with the sketch. “If we knew who it was, we would tell you.”

“Sorry,” James added. “Maybe he's new around here.”