“Dear, this is Mr. Timmy Ferris from the afternoon tabloid,” Beck informed her, his rich voice resonating in the spacious foyer. “He has declined all light refreshment, as well as a towel. I don’t know a damned thing else about him, beyond the obvious fact that he’s just fallen off of a turnip truck from Podunk or Peoria or, possibly, Pomono.”
“It’s Pomona, dear,” she said teasingly, her eyes gleaming like polished stones as she gazed up at me. “He’s wonderfully gangly, wouldn’t you say?”
“Quite gangly. Terribly gangly.”
“Where do you come from, Timmy?”
“Balltown, Iowa.”
Anthony Beck let out a huge guffaw. “No one is from Balltown.”
“Well, I am.”
“Is that one of those endlessly flat places where they grow grains?”
“No, sir, it’s just outside of Dubuque, right near the river. There are quite a few hills there, and we have...” I stopped talking because he wasn’t actually listening to my reply. He’d made his way into the living room to poke at the fire.
“Well, you’re certainly not what I expected from a New York newspaperman,” Barbara chattered gaily as she led me by the arm into the living room. “You’re just so sweet. Now sit down right here by the fire and tell us how we can help you.”
I sat. Barbara perched nimbly on the sofa across the coffee table from me, gazing at me invitingly. Barbara Darrow’s gaze, much like her husband’s voice, was her chief asset as a performer. Those huge dark eyes of hers promised me that I was handsome, charming, and irresistible, that a uniquely powerful attraction existed between just us two. In short, Barbara Darrow’s eyes told me that I was the very man I dreamt of being when I lay awake in my lonely bed every night.
“I’ve been sent here to talk to you about Private Lives.” I pulled out my notepad.
“Not possible,” she said flatly. “That’s simply out of the question.”
Over by the fire, Anthony Beck lit a cigarette with a gold lighter. There was an elegant nonchalance about the way he did it. Every guy who smoked tried to light his cigarette that way. Hardly anyone succeeded. He took a pull on it, studying me calmly.
“But I thought the two of you were expecting me.”
“What we were expecting was a professional who knows how to do his job properly,” Barbara shot back, bristling. “For starters, you have not even seen the show.”
“Yes, I have. I saw it last night.”
She stared at me in silence. So did he. They were waiting for me to say something more. Anything more. I was a bit slow on the uptake in those days.
“You were both magnificent,” I added hurriedly. “I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed an evening in the theater so much. It was truly thrilling.”
They quietly lapped up my praise, much like a pair of kittens enjoying a saucer of cream.
“Cared for the production, did you?” His voice was elaborately casual.
“I sure did. The actress who plays Sibyl is very talented.”
“Leigh can be funny,” Barbara conceded coolly.
“And so is John Jefferson,” I lied. “He’s very good.”
“He is a she,” Barbara sniffed disdainfully.
“Johnny’s a laddie boy,” Beck explained. “Gay as can be. You haven’t anything against gays, have you, Timmy?”
“Why, no.”
“Very open-minded sort of person, our Timmy,” he informed his wife. “Forward-thinking. Has nothing against gays.”
“May we proceed with the interview?”
“I think not,” Barbara replied, sticking out her lower lip. “You didn’t see us at our best last night. Our timing was off. Wasn’t it, dear?”
“Terribly flat-footed,” he agreed. “The third act was an unmitigated disaster. It’s a wonder we didn’t trip over the furniture.”
“Come to tonight’s performance,” she commanded me. “You’ll notice the difference right away. Tomorrow we can talk.”
“But I’m on a deadline, Miss Darrow.”
“Now you’re being difficult, is that it?”
“No, absolutely not. I’m—”
“Timmy, I have been dealing with reporters for twenty-five years,” she huffed, shaking a finger at me. “And I will not be pushed around.”
I looked at Beck for help. He simply looked back at me, his face revealing nothing. I wanted this interview, needed this interview. All that mattered was getting it. So I said, “I’d be delighted to attend tonight’s performance.”
Barbara treated me to her most dazzling smile. “Excellent! Have that awful publicist get you a ticket. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some calls to make.” And with that she jumped to her feet and darted back across the foyer to the other side of the apartment.
“Allow me to show you out,” Beck offered, tossing his cigarette in the fire.
“Not necessary. I know my way.” I fetched my wet coat and hat, put them on, and punched the button for the elevator. When it arrived, I got in. The door was just starting to close when I heard him call out my name. Briefly, I felt like Horatio being summoned by the Prince of Denmark. I held the elevator there, hearing his slippers clack on the marble floor as he came toward me.
“You wouldn’t by some chance be heading to Midtown, would you?” he wondered, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder at the bedroom hallway. “There’s a pub near the Broadhurst called Barrymore’s...”
“I know the place. What about it?”
He reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and produced a slender cream-colored envelope. No name or address written on it. “Could I impose upon you to drop this with the barman? Fellow called Big Steve.”
“Sure. Not a problem.” I took it from him.
His hand slid back into the pocket of his dressing gown and produced a crisp, folded fifty-dollar bill. “For cab fare.”
“No, that wouldn’t be appropriate, Mr. Beck. I’m happy to do it.”
“Much obliged, Timmy.” He held a finger up to his lips. “And not a word of this to you-know-who.”
I rode down to the lobby, holding the envelope up to the light. There seemed to be a single slip of paper inside. A betting slip, was my guess. Anthony Beck was a gambler. Big Steve was his bookie. Smiling to myself, I slid the envelope snugly into the inside breast pocket of my corduroy jacket.
The rain was still coming down hard outside. I could hear it as soon as the elevator door opened. One of the doormen was talking on the house phone as I approached the front door.
He hung up immediately and said, “Excuse me, sir, could you please wait?”
“Wait for what?” I asked, frowning at him.
A moment later the elevator door opened and Barbara Darrow stood huddled there in her leotard. She motioned to me impatiently. I approached her.
“Timmy, did my husband just give you something?”
“Why would you ask me that, Miss Darrow?”