Free Shadow Games by Ed Gorman Page B

could most charitably be described as "adequate."
    The crowd almost made up for this. To judge by all the minks on the ladies and the fancy Armani suits on the men, this was the opening night of a long-awaited Broadway blockbuster. The crowd chattered and chittered and laughed as if they were on display for the cameras of Time magazine and Entertainment Tonight .
    Once they were seated, Anne said, "Look at the crowd."
    "I am. I can't believe it."
    "They must really want to see the show. To come to a place like this."
    Puckett, who'd done a little reading about the Template Theater, felt a certain amount of pity for the shabby old place. "Helen Hayes performed here," he said.
    "She did?"
    He nodded. "And Arthur Miller first tried a one-act version of Death of a Salesman here."
    "That's incredible."
    Puckett made a sour face. "And, unfortunately, nobody seems to give a damn. Not the way they've let everything go to hell."
    A few years ago there had been serious talk about refurbishing this place. No longer. The recession had taken care of that. When you have five thousand people waiting in a single, unending line for three hundred minimum wage jobs, a city has other things to worry about than taking care of some once-proud old warhorse of a local theater.
    Puckett understood this. But it didn't make looking around at this sad, dignified, relic of a theater any easier.
    The play started twenty minutes later and, right from the start, Puckett saw why critics liked it so much.
    Cobey narrated the entire play from stage right, frequently stepping into scenes center stage. In this respect, it was very much like Our Town . The play detailed, with great, sour humor and bawdy glee, the travails of a child TV star. The script was merciless on TV execs and their minions—and just as merciless on minimally talented children who let their modest ability go to their heads. And Cobey certainly hadn't spared himself.
    In the guise of Randy, the dictionary meaning of which was not lost on Puckett, Cobey showed himself to be quite a jerk. Here he literally threw money at a pregnant girl who said she was carrying his child; there he got a scene-hogging co-star fired; here he sat in a small living room with his parents and listened with obvious and vast indifference as his father told him that he was dying of cancer. Cobey was deep into contract negotiations and didn't have time for such trifles as worrying about his old man; there he seduced a very young girl, in a scene that eerily paralleled the troubles he'd had in that Florida shopping mall.
    All this was rendered in dialogue, off-stage narration, and even a few biting and very melancholy songs. And Cobey had written every bit of it. There could be no doubt about his talent as either writer or actor.
    Many critics had applauded the risks Cobey had taken with his own character, and Puckett agreed completely with them. Randy was a despicable character in virtually every respect...and yet...and yet there was a sorrow and curious humor about him that rose from the ashes of his pettiness and egotism and made him...almost likeable.
    Almost.
    It was this tension, this unexpected candor, that was so thrilling to watch. The play ran one hour and thirty-seven minutes without an intermission, and, when it was over, the audience was immediately on its feet. Cobey took eight curtain calls.
     
    E ven half an hour after the play ended, backstage was jammed with people of every kind—reporters, celebrity-gawkers, spouses of the cast, stage hands, and actors appreciating all the attention they were getting—that little universe of wannabes and hangers-on and minor stars that make up every professional stage production.
    In front of Cobey's dressing room stood Lilly Carlyle and a handsome, white-haired man Puckett recognized immediately as Wade Preston, the majority owner of International Talent Management.
    Puckett and Anne went over, Puckett not being sure that Lilly would remember him from their brief