(PATRICK leaps for the props table, grabs a battle-axe.)
PATRICK: No one is going anywhere!
ELSIE:… shocking denouement.
WONG: (unruffled) I thought those were all props.
PATRICK: Not all of them. My research revealed that constructing a fake battle-axe would cost as much as buying a real battle-axe. I also got real police handcuffs from an online auction site, rather than paying through the nose for fakes. (He swings the axe menacingly at WONG.) I’m a great stage manager.
WONG: (drawing her service weapon) Put that down, please. I’ve called my officers, and they will be here any minute.
PATRICK: But I didn’t kill him! Why would I? He was my ticket!
WONG: He was your what?
LEWIS: Yeah. What does that mean?
PATRICK: It means I’ve been stealing from him, you dummy.
WONG: What?
PATRICK: Why would I kill him when I’ve been robbing him blind for years?
ELSIE: (taking notes) Oh, this is fantastic.
MARCUS: Stealing! Oh, my God! Patrick is a thief! An embezzler! Hm. Actually, I guess that’s not as bad as a murderer.
WONG: You’d best explain yourself, Mr. Wolfish.
PATRICK: What’s to explain? I’ve been submitting phony receipts. Raiding the petty cash. For years. Years! Klein is a dope who doesn’t pay attention, and that’s been my livelihood for a decade and a half! Why do you think I wanted him to do a show that might draw a paying audience! Peter and I just bought a house in Hudson, for God’s sake. If Klein is dead, how will I pay the mortgage?
(A booming, merry voice sounds from offstage.)
KLEIN: Yes! How?
(The door of the studio swings open. Enter OTTO KLEIN, beaming, drinking a Dr. Pepper.)
KLEIN: How, indeed?!
LEWIS: Well, I’ll be damned.
ELSIE: Another twist!
(MARCUS runs to KLEIN and hugs him fervently.)
MARCUS: You’re not dead! You’re not dead! This is so amazing. He’s not dead, everybody!
KLEIN: No, I’m not, kid. Though I got one hell of a crick in my neck. (To WONG.) Listen, next time I die, remind me to do it in a hammock.
WONG: You got it.
PATRICK: But-but-I don’t understand-
KLEIN: Of course, ya don’t. But I been wise to you a long time, Patrick. I just needed to hear you say it! And more important, I needed to get it all recorded on my phone. (He holds up his iPhone and grins.) You’ll be offering your next round of explanations to a judge.
PATRICK: And-but-(He wheels toward WONG.) Don’t cops have better things to do than aid in this sort of-of-playacting?
WONG: I wouldn’t know. I’m not a cop. I’m-
ELSIE: Wait! Ooh! Wait! Let me guess it! You’re his wife!
WONG: Bingo.
(WONG and KLEIN embrace.)
ELSIE: I love it!
MARCUS: Well, color me corrected. Not gay at all! Straight and married to a fake policeman! God, I love this cit-ahh!
He screams as PATRICK charges past, tossing aside the battle-axe and leaping at KLEIN in a fury. KLEIN and WONG move to defend themselves, but LEWIS smoothly intercepts PATRICK, drops him with a hard left to the chin, grabs the handcuffs from the table, throws them on PATRICK, and sits on him. Everybody applauds.
ELSIE: Wow.
MARCUS: Bravo!
KLEIN: Well done, Lewis. Well done and thank you.
WONG: (getting off her phone) The real police will be here momentarily.
KLEIN: Good. Very good! Boy, this all worked perfectly.
PATRICK: This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair, goddamn it! I was trapped. Trapped!
ELSIE: (to LEWIS) So, wait. Are you an undercover cop or something?
LEWIS: No. Are you kidding? God, no. That’s all from the play Harlem Streetlights, which I did with LAByrinth at the Bank Street in-God, was it ninety-two? Ninety-four? (Everybody has immediately lost interest. They begin to yawn or take out their phones.) Anyway, Stevie-that’s Stephen Adly Guirgis; I call him Stevie-he handpicked me for the role, and Stevie said that in the interest of verisimilitude…
(The curtain falls as he keeps talking.)
THE END.
Dedicated to Erik Jackson, man of the theater
BEN H. WINTERS is the author, most recently, of the Last Policeman trilogy, which won both the Edgar Award and the Philip K. Dick Award for distinguished science fiction. He is also the author of Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters, a New York Times best-selling satire, and The Secret Life of Ms. Finkleman, an Edgar-nominated middle-grade novel. Before doing any of these those things, he was for many years a lyricist and librettist. He lives in Indianapolis and at BenHWinters.com.
WALL STREET RODEO by Angela Zeman
“Mr. Emil Bauer, I’d hoped to see you here. Especially today.”
I had rubbed against a hunchback this noon. Accidentally, of course. I’d never be so crass as to touch the poor fellow on purpose. Besides, everyone knows the luck comes from an accidental touch. Thus, you understand my excitement. Then I positively tripped over little James here, who dropped his five-dollar bill right in my path! Don’t tell ME that’s not luck! So, I hustled him and his cash right here. To Emil’s spot. “Please meet my friend, newly minted, you might say, heh, in this neighborhood.” I flourished my hand toward the child. “Mr. James Conner.”
Emil glanced fuzzily at the boy. “How old is it?”
The kid bowed slightly, tattered though he was. “Eight years, sir.”
“Ah. Vell brought up,” Emil muttered, sounding like a growly dog. He wriggled closer to the statue’s base, shredding the seat of his old pants on the rough cement. I don’t know which took me aback more, the kid bowing or Emil growling.
Emil rearranged some phlegm in his throat and said to me, “Mr. Slick Nick! You are vell?”
“Just Nick, please. As well as you see me, so kind.” I snapped out my words, showing teeth for a smile. Emil’s eyesight was too poor to catch my true expression. I despised that moniker, stuck on me by some low rabble I no longer acknowledge. Jealousy, that’s all it was. Breathing deeply to calm myself, I managed to soften my smile.
“Zo, Mr. James.” Old Emil squinted at the small boy, then dropped his gaze to the five spot in the boy’s outstretched palm. “Ah. Dis is for me?” He didn’t reach for it. His gnarled hands stayed folded atop the old cane he held upright between his knees. The dough had triggered a memory, and as his watery faded eyes began to blink, Emil forgot he had an audience. Money did that to him. A five spot or a penny, no difference, and his mind would drift back to long-ago better days.
I’d warned the boy he’d do that, but not to worry. I frowned. He didn’t look worried. Maybe he believed me, or maybe… “Kid… you sure you’re not a Murphy? Y’look like one.”
The boy shrugged but avoided my gaze. Sure sign of a lie. I studied him, my toe tapping the bricks. Hm. Some Murphy had assuredly given him that distinctive shade of red hair. His mother, possibly. Thousands of Murphys filled the tenements, like barnacles on a barge. Dear God. I’d better treat him decently. No amount of money was worth the risk of upsetting Murphys. I shivered.