Scene Stealer (2 page)

Sleep would not come. A large red welt had appeared on my right hip, one, slightly smaller, just below the knee. I would apply an ice pack in the morning. Vivid, unwelcome images flashed before my closed eyelids. I dreamt of menacing French fries, hamburger rolls with the same smirk as the sponsor of Kevin's television commercial, milk shakes that rose and swept toward me in a tidal wave of froth.

The bedroom felt unusually hot and stuffy. My nightdress was damp with perspiration, necessitating a change. I decided to lower the window a bit more, then thought better of the idea. The apartment was on the second floor, a difficult climb but not impossible. I checked the lock; it had been purchased at a discount store and I wondered if it was adequate.

“You are behaving like a silly, old lady, Augusta Weidenmaier,” I reprimanded myself, then plumped the bed pillows and ordered my mind and body to sleep.

I sat straight up in bed when the phone rang. The first call was a warning to keep my mouth shut. His crude language recalled threats sounded in the B gangster films so popular in the 1940s. I was fond of those films, tending to stay up long past my usual bedtime whenever a particular favorite was scheduled for showing on the motion picture channel. How would the caller have obtained my phone number? Of course, my missing magazine had my address clearly printed on the mailing label.

Heavy adenoidal breathing was added to the second and third calls. By the third call I was more angry than frightened, I set the receiver in its cradle with a heavy hand. There! That would give the scoundrel an earache he'd remember.

The shrill shriek of a car alarm disturbed the little that was left of my morning sleep. I awoke to find the bedding in disarray, the sheets wrinkled, a pillow thrown to the floor. Had I imagined the phone calls? The threats? Were they a sleep-produced fiction?

There were no reports relating to Kevin on the radio. I quickly scanned the pages of the morning newspaper; a gory murder occupied the first two pages, yesterday's story on Kevin had been relegated to the third. The child was still missing.

The theatrical page featured an article on fading Hollywood stars who had faked their own abduction to garner publicity to boost flagging careers. But Kevin's career was just beginning, and the boy truly frightened.

I washed the newsprint off my hands, then called the station house to check with Lieutenant Brown. He was unavailable. The clerk accepted my name and telephone number; the lieutenant would return my call. Fifteen minutes crawled by; the call was not forthcoming. Feelings of frustration overcame rational consideration. I wandered from room to room, stopping in front of Goldie's bowl. Who would have thought I could become so fond of a goldfish? The brassy creature was a gift from a former student's daughter. The seven-year-old had named him Goldie and Goldie remained his name. Perhaps he deserved something more original but when I received the present I was unaware of his distinct personality.

“Call me, Lieutenant, call me.” I turned toward the telephone, willing it to ring.

Goldie stared at me as he swam round his watery world. No wonder. I was talking to myself. That would never do.

“Goldie.” This time I spoke to the goldfish. “Goldie, I promise I'll find you a companion.” I sprinkled his breakfast into the bowl. The sensible thing to do was enjoy my own.

I marched into the kitchen. A cup of Irish Breakfast tea and a slice of cinnamon toast and I would be ready to put on my thinking cap. A child had asked for my help, I would help that child.

What was the proper way to begin? The shelves of my bookcase were filled with mysteries; how would Miss Marple, Mr. Holmes or Jessica Fletcher investigate the child's abduction?

Who did it? How? When? Where? Why?

Suspects, of course. I composed a list of interviewees then a list of possible suspects. The criminal's motivation would be most important. Greed, power or perversion? Was the boy in danger? According to the news reports, Kevin had gone to school that morning, taken his first class. What happened next? Did any of Kevin's schoolmates see what transpired? Did he know the kidnapper? Was more than one person involved? Perhaps his classmates knew of someone. Heard something; a name mentioned? The boy might have confided in a chum. All boys and girls have a special friend. Yes. I would visit Kevin's school. I would begin with the children.

Leaving my apartment on Bethune Street, I walked up Bleeker to Cornelia; my steps slowed as I passed our local shops. The pungent odors of cheese, mingled with the rich, yeasty smell of hot, freshly baked bread and the aroma of coffee beans, imported from faraway lands, teased my nostrils and offered an invitation hard to resist.

Noxious fumes emanating from cars and trucks hadn't permeated the air; it was still too early in the day. I enjoyed walking,; an economical form of exercise that I had practiced long before it became fashionable. The normal act of breathing was a pleasure this morning. The air was sharp; a cool breeze previewed late autumn's invigorating weather. By late September, most summer visitors were back at work or attending school. Guests arrived, primarily, in the evenings and on weekends. During the day, Greenwich Village belonged to its residents.

Living in Greenwich Village is never boring. A diverse lot occupied its small apartment buildings, brownstones and lofts. Housewives mingle comfortably with artists and drama students. Here and there, clusters of teenagers wearing oddly sculpted hairdos in a psychedelic range of colors, rings in every orifice and tattoos that would do a sailor proud, gathered to stare and be stared at. Preferring old-fashioned pearl clips for social occasions, I had never bothered to have my ears pierced, let alone anything else. I wondered how anyone could enjoy a meal with a pierced tongue.

I longed for a second cup of tea, but there just wasn't time to linger at one of the outdoor cafes; the children would soon have their morning break.

I crossed West 4th Street to Washington Square Park; here the composition of the neighborhood changed. Mothers pushed baby carriages and kept their eyes on toddlers eager for adventure. At this hour, families shared the park with vagrants still sprawled on benches. The poor souls wasting hours and lives in a mental and physical stupor, their bottles of cheap wine emptied and then thrown aside.

The park was filled with activity. Dogs enjoyed their runs; an elderly gentleman distributed chunks of bread to pigeons who quarreled over choice morsels. Two shabbily dressed men loudly debated the merits of various horses and their jockeys, while a third studied the want ads. The chess players were, as usual, engrossed in their game, oblivious to the few onlookers who second-guessed their moves.

A friendly youngster, clad in denims and sneakers, ran up to me.

“What has four wheels and flies?” she asked.

“Don't annoy the lady, Elizabeth.” The child's mother grabbed her hand.

“It's all right. I know the answer,” I said.

“What is it?” Elizabeth, hands on hips, challenged me.

“A garbage truck.”

“Excuse us.” The pair walked away. “Elizabeth Ann Smith. How many times do I have to tell you not to talk to strangers?” The woman's voice carried. “Pay attention.”

How depressing, I thought, to be afraid of other people. Understandable, of course. Kevin Corcoran missing. So many others—one reads such tales of horror and misery.

I picked up my pace, trying to regain my earlier feeling of optimism, but the breeze turned damp and chill, and the wispy cotton-candy clouds darkened.

Kevin's school—The Preparatory Institute for Theatre—was located on Astor Place directly across the street from an old off-Broadway theatre. As I approached, I noticed knots of actors crowding the sidewalk in front of the theatre's locked front doors. Several sipped coffee from cardboard containers. One brushed his over-long hair; another practiced deep knee bends fortunately (or perhaps, unfortunately,) he was dressed in a sweat suit. Other actors gossiped and compared notes. Copies of trade newspapers were scanned and exchanged.

The theatre had, in years past, been home to several dramas and musicals that enjoyed successful runs of some duration. Recently, however, all ventures presented were artistic as well as financial failures. A show window, cracked and suffering from a severe case of grime, displayed a poster advertising a play that had opened and quickly closed at least a year before. The critics found none of the productions to their liking and the playhouse, now considered jinxed, was primarily used for auditions.

Mimeographed flyers, pasted and stapled to the theatre's doors, notified passing browsers of entertainment in other theatres, rummage sales, lost pets and lonely hearts clubs. I noticed a broken beer bottle resting against the grille of the closed box office window.

A harried-looking chap, carrying a clipboard and a stack of index cards, arrived and removed a list of names from the door. I found myself unable to move. my path blocked by the actors surrounding the man.

“Sorry, ma'am,” he said. “No women in this play. Come to our next open call.”

“I'm not an actress,” I began to say but my words were lost as he turned and called the first name.

I edged my way toward the gutter, crossed the street and continued on my way.

Not too many blocks distant, on Lafayette Street, stood the acclaimed Public Theatre. I recalled several blissful summer evenings spent attending their Shakespearean productions in Central Park. The children attending the Preparatory Institute for Theatre would be reminded how short the distance was between fame and failure every time they passed the two theatres.

Noise erupted and spilled into the quiet village street as school doors opened for lunchtime recess and children scattered in every direction. One troupe of youngsters, behaving just like their non-professional counterparts, emerged and headed for a pizza parlor up the block. They were Kevin's age; I followed. On close inspection, the group wasa bit comelier, better dressed, and, of course, more articulate. Their voices projected; every syllable was enunciated. Vocal tones were sweet and pleased the ear.

“Slice and a Coke, please, Joe.” A petite, carrot-haired nine-year-old smiled at the counterman.

“There you go, Patti.” She was rewarded with one of the larger slices of pizza.

The other children pelted Joe with their orders.

“Calzone, Joe.”

“Slice with lots of onion.”

“You're going to stink up the whole school with that onion.”

“What's it to you?”

“I sit next to you, that's what!”

“Who cares?”

I had to smile. How many times had I heard children interact in the same manner? I interrupted the squabble.

“Boys and girls, I am Miss Weidenmaier. I taught children your age at Public School 98.”

“A public school?”

“Were you an acting teacher?”

“No. I was a speech teacher. In addition, I taught reading, writing, arithmetic and history. I did direct the school play in honor of George Washington's birthday.”

“We perform Shakespeare and Shaw at PT,” Patti said.

“I am a friend of Kevin Corcoran's,” I said, ignoring the slight to President Washington, “and I am assisting Lieutenant Brown in his search for Kevin.”

“Where's your ID?”

The question came from the young man who had ordered “lots of onion” with his slice. He could have stepped out of the old
Our Gang
comedies that featured a pretty girl, a chubby boy, a rascal and a freckle-faced boy. I handed the boy with a taste for lots of onion my old school identification card. The youngster took his time examining it before nodding his head in affirmation and handing it back to me.

“Did any of you see Kevin talking with a stranger?”

The children focused on Patti.

“Kevin was with me,” she said. She bit her lip, trying to hold back tears.

“They're special friends.” A girl, her face covered with freckles, snickered then clapped both hands over her mouth.

“My grandfather, Abner T. Bean, is his agent.” Patti cast a withering look at Freckle-face who took three steps back and, hiding behind an athletically built twelve-year-old, disappeared from sight.

“Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart.” A surprisingly strong soprano emanated from a pint-sized boy with enormous brown eyes, wearing a T-shirt with masks, representing comedy and tragedy, stenciled across the front.

“Stop showing off,” Patti admonished him. “His great-grandmother sang in the chorus of all the Victor Herbert operettas.”

“She wasn't in the chorus, she was featured.”

“My grandmother sang for the Shuberts.” The freckle-faced youngster peeped from behind the twelve-year-old.

Patti ignored them both. “Kevin and I were on a break between classes.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “We were going to Baskin-Robbins for an ice-cream cone.”

“You're not supposed to leave school between classes,” Freckle-face said. “I bet you snuck out.”

“Goody-goody.” A chorus of voices heckled the child.

“It's my fault he's kidnapped.” A tear slid down Patti's cheek. “It was my idea to go for ice cream. They're featuring Gummi Bear Swirl this month and it's my favorite and now Kevin is gone.”

“Ych!” One of the children commented on Patti's choice of flavor.

“It's not your fault, Patti. We will find Kevin; now tell me all you can remember about the man.”

“He came up to Kevin and gave him a big greeting. Kevin looked surprised. I don't think he recognized him at first, but then he said ‘Hello' back. The man said he wanted to ask Kevin something in private and Kevin said we were friends and I was going to be his manager someday, which I am, so the man could talk in front of me. The man said it had to be private so I said I would meet Kevin at Baskin-Robbins. Kevin never showed up.”

“Stood you up,” the pint-sized boy soprano declared.

“Kevin would never stand me up! That man must have abduc…abducted Kevin.” Patti struggled with the word but finally succeeded in pronouncing it correctly.

“Aw c'mon. My dad says it's all a publicity stunt to sell more burgers.”

“What did the man look like?” I asked.

“Nothing special,” Patti said.

“Tall or short?”

“Sort of in-between.”

“Fat? Thin?”

“Not fat. Not thin either.”

“Hair?”

“A real mess. He was in desperate need of a hair stylist.”

“What about his features?”

“The camera wouldn't like them. His skin was bad too. A cosmologist might have helped but he'd need a lot of treatments.”

“Can you think of anything else, dear?”

“I didn't know it was going to be important. What if he hurts Kevin?” Patti stifled a sob.

“It's going to be all right, Patti. I promise.”

Patti's face brightened. “His teeth,” she said. “The man had terrible teeth. I remember thinking he couldn't be an actor or he would have had his teeth capped. They were awful. Does that help?” She looked at me—anxiety written all over her sweet face.

“Yes, dear, thank you. You've been most helpful.”

Patti had just described the man on the train.

“Did any of you see Kevin and the man go off together?”

None of the children had. They grew restless.

Three alarms rang; each had a distinct and, to my ears, discordant tone. Three boys checked their cell phones.

“Uh oh, time to get back to school,” Freckle-face said.

There were no more answers to my questions. Recess was over.