In case she might be holding something back—although she sure didn’t sound as though she was—I trotted out the poor old father bit for her, telling her that finding Albee for his father was the reason I wanted to see Jerry Score.
It didn’t help, but she’d have helped if she could. Jerry hadn’t told her where Albee had gone, and she didn’t think Jerry knew. I believed her and was convinced she couldn’t tell me more than she had about Albee; that is, anything that would be helpful in finding him.
Not that she wasn’t willing to keep on talking—about anything at all. I had to make my escape or soon she’d have been bringing out her press clippings and theatrical photos of two dozen years ago. But I liked her and promised to come back some time, and meant it.
It was five o’clock. The next name on my list was Honey Howard, Albee’s inamorata. She lived a taxi jump away, on Schiller Street a couple blocks west of Clark Street. But the Graydon Theater, the ex-burlesque house that was now used only by little theater groups like and including the Near Northers, was on Clark just a block or two from Schiller, so I decided to take a taxi there, and walk to Honey’s from the theater. Probably I’d find no one at the theater, but if they’d had an afternoon rehearsal without Jerry Score and it had run late, someone might still be there.
I used the phone in the hallway near Mrs. Proust’s door to call a cab and waited for it outside. Surprisingly, for such a rush hour, it came fairly quickly, and it was only five-thirty when I disembarked in front of the Graydon.
I walked through the lobby, its walls ornate with plaster nymphs and satyrs, and tried the doors but found them locked. But there’d be a stage entrance around off the alley and I headed for it, neared it just in time to see a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman turn a key in the lock of the door and come toward me. I begged his pardon and asked if he was connected with the Near Northers.
He smiled. “You might almost say I am the Near Northers, young man. I started the group four years ago and have been manager ever since and director of every alternate play we’ve put on since. I’m directing the current one. What can I do for you?”
I introduced myself and told him I was interested in Albee Nielson, and why.
He told me that he didn’t know a lot about Albee personally, but he’d be glad to tell me what he did know. Where should we talk? We could go back into the theater, or there was a quiet bar a block down the street if I cared to have a drink with him.
It was half past five and I decided on the drink. I’d be eating soon, maybe before I looked up Honey Howard if my talk with the little theater group’s manager-director ran very long.
He introduced himself, while we walked, as Carey Evers. The name sounded vaguely familiar to me, and it occurred to me that
his face was slightly familiar too. I asked him if I’d ever seen him before, possibly on television or in movies.
Quite probably, he told me, if I ever watched old movies on late-late shows. He’d started in them about the time they were making the transition from silents to talkies. He’d played bit parts and character roles. Never important parts, never starred, but he’d been in a hundred and sixty-four movies. A great many of them were B’s, most of them in fact, but they were still being rerun on television. He’d never tried to make the transition to television per se. He’d retired seven years ago.
We were in the bar, sitting in a booth over drinks, by that time. He stopped talking, waiting for me to start asking my questions about Albee, but instead I asked him how much time he had.
He glanced at his watch. “An hour or so. Dinner date at seven, but it’s near here; I won’t have to leave until a quarter of.”
“Good,” I said. “Then keep on about yourself for at least a few more minutes. How you came to Chicago after you retired, and how you started the Near Northers.”
He’d bought a place in Malibu when he’d retired, he told me, but he’d never liked California. “Hated the place, in fact. And I’d been born and raised in Chicago—broke into show business here, night club work—and didn’t go to Hollywood till I was almost thirty. And I found myself homesick for Chicago after I had nothing to do out there, so I sold the Malibu place within a year and came back. Bought a house on Lake Shore Drive, but near the Near North Side, my old haunt.
“And after a while, found myself bored with nothing to do, and homesick for show biz again, and discovered little theater. Worked with two other groups, and then started my own. It’s wonderful. I work fourteen hours a day, except when I rest between plays, and love it.”
He grinned wryly. “And these kids love me—if only because I’m angel as well as manager-director.” He explained that almost all little theater groups operated at a deficit, especially if they wanted to do good work and put on good plays, the public be damned, and still keep ticket prices low enough so they’d have a good audience to play to.
Carey Evers had retired not rich but with a lot more money then he’d be able to use during the rest of his life, and could think of no better way to spend it, and his time; as long as he remained strong and healthy enough, he’d keep on doing what he was doing. He loved it.
In answer to a question, he told me that no, the actors didn’t make any money out of it; they worked for the love of acting, for the fun of it, and some of them with the hope of learning enough to become professionals someday. And two kids out of the original group he’d started with four years ago were now doing bit parts in television, another was now an announcer on a Chicago television station.
“Do you ever lend any of them money?” I asked, and then cut in before he could answer. “Wait. That’s none of my business, but this is: Did Albee Nielson ever borrow or try to borrow money from you?”
He nodded. “About three weeks ago, he came to me and tried to borrow five hundred. I turned him down. In the first place, I never lend money in amounts like that and in the second, I didn’t believe his story, that it was for an operation for his father. I knew enough about him to know that his father was solvent, and I knew Albee was working steady—he was then—but playing the horses. I put two and two together.
“And from what I’ve learned since, my addition was correct. In fact, in the week or so after that he apparently ran a few hundred more in the hole trying to get out.”
“Was that the last time you saw him?”
He nodded. “That was when we were casting the current play and I asked him if he wanted to try out for a part. He didn’t. It was too bad; he’s a pretty good actor. I’d say almost but not quite professional, or potentially professional, caliber. He had the lead role in two plays we’ve put on, strong supporting parts in several others.”
“What else do you know about him? Especially his personal life?”
He talked a while, but I didn’t know any more when he’d told me all he could than I had when he’d started. Yes, Jerry Score was his closest friend, Honey Howard was his girl. And other things I’d already learned.
I asked him if he knew where Jerry Score was today. It turned out in Hammond, Indiana, for the funeral of an uncle. “Went there a little early to have some time with his family. The funeral’s tomorrow morning, and Jerry will rush right back for afternoon rehearsal. He’ll probably come right from the train, so you’ll do better finding him at the Graydon than trying his room. We start rehearsal at one-thirty.”
“Will I be able to talk to him during rehearsal, or should I wait till after?”