“Very funny,” Abby said with a sneer. “And you can get that snotty look off your face right now, because no, I did not sleep with the producer.”
“Then who did you sleep with?” I bellowed, just as the train pulled to a stop at 14th Street. My question went unanswered as we hopped off the local and changed to an express.
“Knock it off, Paige,” Abby yelled into my ear after the train had resumed its noisy hurtle through the tunnel, “I’m getting tired of your nasty insinuations about my sex life. They’re repetitious and boring.”
She had me there. I was even beginning to bore myself. “Okay, okay!” I cried. “No more catty remarks. I promise! But, please, just tell me this: how in the name of all that’s holy did you ever get tickets to Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?”
“I don’t have them yet,” she admitted. “I have to pick them up at the theater. Somebody was supposed to leave them at the box office for me.”
“Oh, no!” I groaned, feeling a big wave of doubt crash over me. “Who was supposed to do that? How do you know the tickets will be there? And what’ll we do if they’re not? Jesus, Abby! We could be making this miserable trip for nothing!” In an effort to curb my rising temper (and rising temperature), I gazed up at the Catalina swimsuit ad plastered above the seats across the aisle, imagining that I was the pretty redhead in the green-and-white strapless one-piece, bouncing in the surf instead of the subway.
“Hang loose, Paige!” Abby sputtered. “Don’t sweat it. The tickets will be there. Take my word for it. Gray is a very good friend of mine. He won’t let me down.”
“Gray?”
“Yeah, Gray Gordon. He’s the understudy for Ben Gazzara, the actor who plays the male lead in the show. Gray called me up a few hours ago and said that Mr. Gazzara had collapsed from heat stroke this afternoon, and that he-Gray-was going to have to take over for him-Gazzara-and play the lead role in the performance tonight! Isn’t that fabulous? My good friend Gray is making his debut in the peachiest play on Broadway, and he wants me to be there. I’m so proud I could plotz!”
The train zipped into the 34th Street station and then out again, with barely a blink of awareness from me. My brain was focused on more pressing matters.
“Gray who?” I asked again. “What did you say his last name was?”
“It’s Gordon!” Abby shrieked, patience strained to the limit.
“Gray Gordon,” I repeated, still doubtful about the phony-sounding name and the whole iffy situation. “Never heard of him.”
“Of course you never heard of him! He’s an understudy, for cripe’s sake! Tonight will be his first time appearing on the legitimate stage! How the hell could you have heard of him?” She was getting mad now.
“I meant I never heard you mention him before,” I said, barreling on in my naturally inquisitive (okay, normally intrusive) style. “Just how good a friend is he?” I pestered. “How long have you known him? Does he do anything besides act? Where does he live? Does he have any family? Why haven’t I ever met him?”
What I really wanted to know was if he was the one she had slept with, but I didn’t dare ask.
Abby moaned and threw her hands in the air. “God, Paige, you’re worse than my mother!” she wailed. “What the hell does any of that stuff matter? All that matters is that my friend Gray is playing the lead in a hit show tonight, and he left two free tickets for me at the box office. Eighth row center. Thanks to Gray, you and I get to sit in a posh, air-conditioned theater all evening-lolling in the lap of luxury and digging the coolest drama on Broadway-instead of panting like dogs in the stifling heat of our apartments and taking cold showers just to stay conscious.”
Abby glared at me and her cheeks turned crimson. “You should be kissing Gray’s tuchus in Macy’s window,” she fumed, “instead of asking me all these stupid damn questions about him!”
I was about to utter something wise and witty about the importance of being vigilant and well-informed, when our train screeched into Times Square station, cutting off my train of thought. Then, before I knew what was happening, Abby vaulted out of her seat, stomped across the aisle, slipped through the opening doors, and stormed off toward the station exit.
“Hey, wait for me!” I called, running like a fool to catch up with her.
Big mistake. If I’d had any idea of the danger she was leading me into, I’d have run like a thief the other way.
Chapter 2
ABBY WAS SO MAD SHE DIDN’T TALK TO me during the entire three-block trek uptown. She didn’t even say anything when I asked if I could make a quick stop at Nedick’s for a hot dog. She just shook her head (rather violently, I thought) and kept on walking (okay, charging) past the strip joints, rifle ranges, novelty shops, penny arcades, and peep shows strung, like gaudy charms on a bracelet, along the blinking neon borders of Broadway.
When we got to 45th Street, Abby made an abrupt right turn and led me halfway up the block to the Morosco Theatre. I was happy to see the words Cat on a Hot Tin Roof displayed on the theater’s marquee. At least that part of Abby’s story was true. And the large posters hung near the theater’s entrance made it clear that Ben Gazzara was, indeed, the male star of the show. Now there were just two questions left to answer: Would Mr. Gazzara’s understudy be playing the lead tonight, and would two free tickets actually be waiting for us at the box office?
I followed Abby into the crowded lobby, expecting the worst (as I usually do) but praying to be wrong. All I wanted in the whole wide world at that moment was to sit down in a cushioned seat, pry off my painful high-heels, and surrender my feverish body to a comforting blast of refrigerated air. (I had given up all hope of a hot dog.)
Without a word, Abby turned her back to me and began pushing her way toward the box office, quickly disappearing in the crowd. Exerting an uncharacteristic effort to be confident and optimistic, I decided to wait for her near the main door to the theater, in the ticket-holders line. (I hadn’t read Dr. Norman Vincent Peale’s number-one bestseller, The Power of Positive Thinking, for nothing!)
I didn’t have to wait long. Abby reappeared within minutes, waving two tickets in the air and wearing a very smug smile on her self-satisfied kisser. “See?!” she crowed. “I told you they’d be here. My friend Gray is a man of his word. And I trust him a hell of a lot more than you trust me! So, what do you have to say about that, Miss Snotnose?”
“That’s great!” I exclaimed, hoping those two little words, coupled with the joyful-yet-apologetic look on my face, would convey my sincere repentance and gratitude.
Abby, you should know (if you don’t already), is a more forgiving and accepting person than I am. “This is so groovy!” she said, dropping all signs of anger and impatience and replacing her smug smile with a happy one. “I can’t wait to see Gray perform here tonight. He’s going to be great. I know he will!”
“What makes you so sure?” I asked, trying, but failing, to suppress my still-burning curiosity. “Have you seen Mr. Gordon perform anywhere before?”
“You bet I have,” she said, “but it wasn’t on the stage!” She grinned and gave me a big fat bawdy wink that answered my unspoken question. “Now, come on!” she chirped, linking her arm through mine and tugging me toward the ticket taker. “Let’s go inside.”
HAVE YOU EVER HAD THE SUDDEN DREAM-LIKE sensation that you died and went to heaven? Then you know how I felt the instant I stepped into the hushed, cool, velvet-soft sanctuary of the elegant Morosco Theatre. It was as if I had left the real world altogether and walked into a cushy cloud.
Abby and I made our way to our seats (eighth row center, just like she said), and sat down in a flurry of excitement and petticoats. (Abby was wearing at least three of the starched and swishy things. I had on just one.) I looked over the playbill and scanned the cast list, spotting three names I recognized: Ben Gazzara in the role of Brick; Barbara Bel Geddes in the female lead of Margaret, a.k.a. Maggie the Cat; and Burl Ives in the role of Big Daddy. I read down the list of the understudy’s names and, sure enough, Gray Gordon was there.