She had been successful in corralling most of the cast, though the party proceeded in a subdued and semi-gloomy manner for over an hour without a sign of either Harmon or Eugenia. The children and their stage parents seemed to be enjoying themselves, along with the African-American contingent that had portrayed Big Daddy’s household staff. They’d had no illusions about Broadway, having been informed at the start that their relatively minor roles would be recast by New York actors.
The others were finding it difficult to set aside their sense of betrayal, even with their stomachs full and their wine and cocktail glasses being constantly refilled. Jason Dupuis, suspicious that Tom had been in on the deception, was giving the playwright a hard time of it.
“Don’t touch me, old man,” he said, jerking his arm from Tom’s hand. “I prefer not to associate with people I don’t trust.”
“I learned of Harmon’s plans when you did,” Tom protested.
“You’re lucky I don’t know for sure, or I’d give you what I’m gonna give the fat man.”
“You physically attack him and he’ll sue you. The publicity will make him stronger and destroy you.”
“Oh yeah? Like I got anything to destroy. In any case, hanging around with you’s lost all its appeal. What can a has-been like you do for me now? Dig?”
We both watched the method former bartender swagger off toward Eugenia Broussard, who’d just arrived, alone. “He’d seemed like such a nice boy,” Tom said, not at all sarcastically.
“Sharper than a serpent’s tooth is an ungrateful actor,” I said.
“The sad thing is, I’ve been treated worse,” Tom said and cackled mirthlessly. “Time for me to refill the cup. Can I get you something from the bar, Harol’?”
I told him I was fine.
I watched him collect a large clear drink and take it to join Megan, who was saying goodbye to the departing children and their parents. Jason, meanwhile, had turned his full glowering method stare on Eugenia and she seemed to be flowering under its intensity.
Actors.
Harmon Kane arrived nearly two hours late for the party.
By then, we were down to a skeleton crew. Jason and Eugenia were “discovering” themselves on a couch in the corner. Jacques Boudreaux, the once and, it now appeared, future druggist, was ranting to an obviously inebriated and disinterested Tom about being relegated to a life of “rolling pills,” while his wife Lula, a country girl from Jeanerette, was confessing to me that, “as good as mah hubby is pretendin’ to be Gooper, I just wouldn’t’a felt right about livin’ in New Yawk, with Jacques associatin’ with drug addicks an’ all.”
Mildred “Big Mama” St. Paul and Megan were standing at the food table, deep in a discussion — of calories, I guessed. Her husband, the vice president of Henderson Petroleum, had been backed into a corner by insurance salesman Carl Godet and was trying to edge away gracefully.
All conversation ceased when Harmon entered.
He looked uncharacteristically harried, his hair mussed and his round face an unhealthy shade of gray. “Forgive me for arriving so late,” he said to the room, “and for... everything. If you’ll allow me, I’ll try and explain... but first, could someone be so kind as to point out the facilities?”
“There,” Megan said flatly, indicating the doors leading to the darkened bedrooms and baths.
As soon as he stormed away, energy began to flow through the room again. Lula drifted in the direction of her husband and I strolled to the window where Tom stood staring at the lights along the Mississippi.
“Lovely view,” he said.
“Not exactly like the lights on Broadway,” I said.
“No, but you know, Harol’, these folks do have some talent. And if they really want Broadway, they’ll find a way to get there.”
We watched the lights for a few minutes in silence.
“Okay. I’ve had enough of this bull.” Jason’s angry voice drew us both from the river view.
He strode angrily into the bedroom and continued to the closed bathroom door. “People out here want to talk to you, fat man,” he shouted. “Enough with the Frankie Machine bit.”
The door remained closed.
“C’mon out, you lyin’, sorry son of—”
Jason’s flow of invective was interrupted by the opening of the bathroom door.
Harmon stood wild-eyed and mountainous in the doorway, nearly blotting out the light from the bathroom. He had removed his tux jacket, pulled his bow tie apart, and unhooked his cuffs and the top of his shirt. He stumbled forward, then stopped and took a stiff-legged backward step, as if attempting a Frankenstein-monster parody.
But there was nothing comedic about his condition.
Jason, his handsome face registering surprise and, I think, fear, distanced himself as the big man started forward again, gasping for air and reaching out his arms. As he entered the lighted room where we stood his body began to spasm.
I rushed to offer whatever help I could, but I was too late. He went down hard on his side, hitting the carpet with an ugly thud. He rolled onto his back and lay there, his mouth opening and closing, reminding me, I hate to say, of a bloated, beached frog.
He stared up at me, his face wet with perspiration and tears. “Meg... Meg... did it...” he said. Then, apparently annoyed with himself, he shook his massive head. He mumbled something.
I knelt beside him, sensing rather than seeing the others in the room move closer. There was an oddly familiar chemical smell coming from his body, pungent, but not unpleasant. I placed my ear near his mouth and heard him whisper his final words.
I stood and looked down at his still body, only then realizing that a hypodermic needle was dangling from one huge fleshy arm, caught in place by the open French cuff of his shirt.
There was little doubt that he was dead, but I felt for a pulse anyway.
Jacques Boudreaux, the druggist, stood right behind me. “Oh, man, ain’t that somethin’?” he said.
“What was it he whispered to you?” Tom asked. “His last words?”
I pointed to the needle. “He said, ‘the heroin.’”
“Good Lord,” Mildred St. Paul said. “Was he on heroin?”
“On something,” I said.
“Actually, according to the insurance policy we needed for the play, he was a diabetic,” Megan said coldly. “Not that that rules out heroin, of course.”
“Diabetic?” Jason said. “Then that’s what killed him.”
“Either that or a drug overdose,” I said. “In any case, we should all move back from the body and find a comfortable place to sit and wait for the police. They won’t want anybody using that bathroom.”
“Shouldn’t we cover him with somethin’?” Tom asked.
“I think we’d better leave him like he is,” I said, and, ignoring the buzz of their questions and comments, I took it upon myself to notify the night manager of the hotel.
He in turn summoned the police.
A pair of uniformed policemen, one fresh and brash, the other seasoned and bored, answered the call and quickly ushered us to one of the hotel’s vacant suites, leaving the death scene to technicians from the coroner’s office and various other minions of the law.
Eventually we were joined by two homicide detectives, Burke (pronounced “Burkie”) and Mamahat, who, for the next two hours, interviewed each of us singly in the suite’s bedrooms.
Finally, Mamahat, a small, sad-eyed, olive-skinned man who seemed to be the ranking member of the NOPD, emerged from a room with Lula Boudreaux, the last of us to be interrogated. “I’m sorry we had to keep all you folks heah,” he said, looking as if that really were the truth. “But, in point o’ fact, Mr. Harmon Kane, a man of international fame, is now officially a victim of homicide, making this, unofficially, what we call a ‘don’t make a mistake or your butt winds up walking a beat on Bourbon Street’ murder investigation.”