“Mine and Jamie’s and—”
“Jamie?”
“Our choreographer, Jamie Atkins. But... are you asking who was actually there when the dancers were cast?”
“Yes.”
“Well, as I said — this would be the final selection, you understand — I was there, and Freddie Carlisle, our director, and Jamie, and his assistant, and our musical director, and an Equity rep, I guess, and... let me see... two of the stage managers were there, and our press agent, I think, and, of course, a piano player. And... well, sure, the composer and the lyricist and the book writer.”
“The book writer?”
“The librettist. I think that was about it. This was a long time ago. We went into rehearsal last August, you know. We must’ve been doing our final casting in July sometime.”
“Quite a few people,” Carella said.
“Oh, yes, decision by committee,” Carter said, and smiled. “But when you figure a musical can cost anywhere between two and three million bucks — well, you’ve got to be cautious.”
“So all these people got together and... well, what did they do?” Carella asked. “Vote?”
“Not really. It’s more a sort of general agreement on a finalist, with the choreographer having the last word, of course. He’s the one who’s going to have to work with any given dancer, you know.”
“How many dancers didn’t get a part?”
“Thousands. Counting the cattle calls, and the Equity calls... sure. We must’ve seen every unemployed dancer in the city.”
“Miss Anderson must’ve been a good dancer,” Meyer said.
“I’m sure she was. She was, after all, hired for the part.”
“How’d she get along with the rest of the cast?”
“You’d have to ask either Freddie or Jamie about that.”
“Your director and choreographer.”
“Yes. But I’m sure there was no friction... aside from the usual tension generated by a show in rehearsal. What I’m saying... let me try to explain this.”
“Please,” Carella said.
“The company of any show, particularly a musical, has to perform as a tightly knit unit. I’m sure if there was any friction between Miss Anderson and anyone else in the cast, Jamie would’ve had a good long talk with her. When two million five is at stake, there’s no room for fooling around with artistic temperament.”
“Is that how much Fatback cost?”
“Give or take.”
“How long was the show in rehearsal, Mr. Carter?”
“Six weeks. Not counting previews. We did two weeks of previews before we felt we were ready for the critics.”
“Were you present at all those rehearsals?”
“Not all of them. After Freddie had mounted a good part of the show, yes. Usually, you try to give your creative people a free hand in the beginning. Once the run-throughs start, a producer — well, this producer, anyway — tries to be present at all the rehearsals.”
“Then you would have noticed if there was any friction between Miss Anderson and any other member of the cast.”
“I detected no such friction. Gentlemen, I wish I could help you, believe me. But I hardly knew the girl. I’ll confess something to you. When I read about her in the paper, I had difficulty recalling just which one of the dancers she was.”
“I see,” Carella said.
“Little redheaded thing, wasn’t she?” Carter said.
“We didn’t see the body, sir,” Carella said.
“What?” Carter said.
“We weren’t there at the scene, sir,” Carella said.
“The body was found in another precinct,” Meyer said at once.
“Sir,” Carella said, “it would help us if we could get a list of names, addresses, and telephone numbers for everyone in the cast and crew, anyone who might have had even the slightest contact with Miss Anderson.”
“You don’t plan to visit them all, do you?” Carter said.
“Well... yes,” Carella said.
Carter smiled. “Maybe I ought to give you some idea of what that would involve,” he said. “Fatback is a very large show. We’ve got six principals, four featured players, sixteen dancers plus twelve other people in the chorus, eighteen stagehands, twenty-six musicians, three stage managers, three property men, fourteen wardrobe people, including the dressers, three electricians, two carpenters, one sound man, three lighting-board-and-follow-spot men, one makeup woman, and two standby dancers — what we call ‘swing’ dancers.”
Carella looked at Meyer.
“That comes to one hundred fourteen people,” Carter said.
“I see,” Carella said. He paused. Then he said, “But does such a list exist? Of all these people?”
“Well, yes, several lists, in fact. Our general manager has one, and our company manager, and the production secretary... in fact, I’m sure there’s a list at the theater, too. Near the stage door phone. That might be your best bet. If you could stop by the theater—”
“Yes, sir, we’ll do that.”
“As a matter of fact, why don’t you kill two birds with one stone?” Carter said.
“Sir?” Carella said.
“I mean, as long as you’ll be at the theater.”
The detectives looked at him, puzzled.
“I’ve guaranteed a pair for a friend of mine, but there was a message on my machine that he won’t be coming into the city tonight because of the weather.” Carter looked at their blank faces. “I’m talking about the show,” he said. “Do you think you might like to see it? There’s a pair of house seats guaranteed at the box office.”
“Oh,” Carella said.
“Oh,” Meyer said.
“What do you think?” Carter asked.
“Well, thank you,” Meyer said, “but my wife and I are meeting some friends for dinner tonight.”
“How about you?”
“Well...” Carella said.
“You’ll enjoy it, believe me.”
“Well...”
He was hesitating because he didn’t know what “house seats” were and he didn’t know what “guaranteed” meant, but it sounded to him as if these might be free tickets, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to accept a gift from a man who claimed to believe a five-foot-eight blonde murder victim was a “little redheaded thing.” Carella had learned early on in the game that if you wanted to survive as a cop, you either took nothing at all or you took everything that wasn’t nailed down. Accept a cup of coffee on the arm from the guy who ran the local diner? Fine. Then also take a bribe from the friendly neighborhood fence who was running a tag sale on stolen goods every Sunday morning. A slightly dishonest cop was the same thing as a slightly pregnant woman.
“How much do these tickets cost?” he asked.
“Forget it,” Carter said, and waved the question aside, and Carella knew the man had figured he was seeking the grease; he was, after all, a cop in this fair city, wasn’t he? And cops copped; anytime and anyplace they could.
“Are house seats free tickets?” Carella asked.
“No, no, we do have investors, you know, we can’t go giving away seats to a hit,” Carter said. “But these are taken care of, don’t worry about them.”
“Who’s taking care of them?” Carella asked.
“I personally guaranteed them,” Carter said.
“I don’t know what that means,” Carella said. “Guaranteed.”
“I personally agreed to pay for them. Even if they weren’t claimed.”
“Claimed?”
“By law, house seats have to be claimed forty-eight hours before any performance. By guaranteeing them, I was — in effect — claiming them.”
“But they haven’t been paid for yet.”