CHAPTER 4
====================================================================
Other teams with essentially separate assignments for the day probably would have gone off on their respective tasks without seeing each other, maybe touching base later in the day, maybe exchanging information through indirect avenues such as their captain or a written report left on the other’s desk. For Hutch and Starsky, this would have required a change in their basic functioning - - something along the lines of changing how they breathed or digested food. Years of experience had shown them that, even when assigned to separate tasks, they worked best when they met first thing in the morning to review their plans for the day, then again after their shift to rehash and pose questions for consideration overnight. As often as not, they ended up going out to dinner afterward, sometimes to continue discussing the case, and other times to forget about it.
So the next morning found both men in the squad room as usual. Hutch had about an hour before he had to be at his first rehearsal. Starsky was facing several hours of paperwork and running down information about the cast and crew members, before he could hit the streets and start asking questions about murders similar to the lighting designer’s. Hutch planned to join him as soon as his day’s activities were complete, so they could run down some leads together and also continue showing a united front on their beat.
Hutch knew he needed to study up on the resume Dobey had sent over to Drake. As usual, it was thorough; it was also as close as possible to the truth, so he didn’t have too many new facts to learn. Bachelor’s degree in theatre (the criminal justice part omitted for obvious reasons) at the University of Minnesota, a string of community theatre and semi-professional productions, newly moved here after a regional theatre closed in the Midwest.
There were only two areas of difficulty: his name and the union. He couldn’t get on that stage as Ken Hutchinson; if there was any advance publicity, he would be opening himself up to any number of creeps he’d busted who held a grudge. So he took the last name “Hyde,” appropriate credentials were created, and everyone hoped that no one tried to confirm facts at the University.
The actors union started out as an even tougher issue. On the one hand, it would be highly unusual for a non-Equity actor to be playing the lead role in a professional theatre, and it would be easy to disprove if he falsely claimed he were a member. On the other, it seemed important to limit the number of people who knew his true identity. Having the union in on the deception at any level seemed to open a myriad of “blown cover” possibilities. Finally, they convinced Drake to use his clout and sponsor “Kenneth Hyde” for a provisional membership.
Thinking about it made Hutch tired already, but having inflicted his moods on his partner the day before, he tried to be more pleasant this morning as they discussed their plans. Then, business completed, the conversation turned to more personal matters.
“So, are you nervous?” Starsky asked, as he polished off the last of his coffee cake and chased it with a gulp of coffee. Despite his best efforts, his partner was fidgeting more than usual, moving things around on his desk, tapping his fingers, and glancing every few minutes at his watch.
“You know, I am,” Hutch admitted. “Damned if I know why, but there it is.”
“Didn’t you do this stuff in school?” Starsky fired his napkin at a nearby wastebasket and missed.
“Constantly,” Hutch replied, talking more to the pen he was running through his fingers than to Starsky. “But it’s been a long time, and this is a huge role. I’m not sure if I’ve still got the chops to handle it.”
“Hey,” Starsky said. “If you can convince a suspect that I’m gonna send you out for coffee and then tear his head off, you can do this.” Despite himself, Hutch laughed. Trust Starsky to try the wiseass way to reassure him.
“I think that speaks more to your acting than mine,” he pointed out.
“This is true,” Starsky said, trying to look modest and failing. He leaned his chair at a seemingly impossible angle to retrieve the napkin ball and try his shot again. This time, he sank it, but nearly lost his balance in the process.
“Watch yourself,” Hutch cautioned. He was paying close attention to Starsky’s actions now, probably to distract himself from his own thoughts.
“No sweat.” In a move borne of years of practice, Starsky smoothly uprighted himself and returned the chair to its intended position. When he spoke again, his tone was gentler. “Hear anything from your folks?”
“Not yet,” Hutch sighed. “I’m going to let it rest for a few days--” Starsky inwardly snorted at the unlikelihood of _that_-- “then try again. I think my sister’s getting sick of talking to me.”
Starsky couldn’t restrain a sour look. He’d only met Kimberly Hutchinson-Munroe once, but that was enough to peg her for the egocentric, priority-challenged suburban matron she was. He could easily envision her response to Hutch’s insistence that she care about someone other than herself, her children, or her pampered dogs.
Hutch glanced at his watch--for the hundredth time, Starsky thought--and felt his palms go suddenly damp. Taking a deep breath, he rose and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Well--” He couldn’t quite find words to describe his next steps. A part of him felt vaguely silly about this assignment, but that was how it was.
“Knock ‘em dead,” Starsky said encouragingly.
Hutch managed a slightly sickly smile, squared his shoulders, and started out the door.
At that moment, a demon clearly took hold of his partner, as someone resembling Starsky called after him: “Hey. Blondie!”
Hutch glanced back over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.
“Can’t wait to see you in tights!”
Hutch closed his eyes and prayed for patience. He knew the squad room was staring and he could feel the blush creeping up his cheeks. ‘Just turn around and walk away,’ he told himself. ‘You can kill him later.’ He finally convinced his legs and his feet to carry him into the hallway and down the stairs to the street. As he climbed into the battered Ford, he raised his eyes and asked whatever spirits protect fools, children, and undercover detectives to please, please spare him the ignominy of tights.
*******************************************
Beginner’s luck. One of the first things Drake did when Hutch arrived at the theatre was whisk him off to Teresa, the costumer. The embarrassment of being asked to immediately remove most of his clothing was offset by her designs--not a set of tights in the bunch; rather, simple, nondescript clothing that resembled nothing so much as a fencing outfit. As Teresa pinned and tucked his white first act costume, nattering all the while, it dawned on Hutch that there was nowhere in that outfit for his gun - - not even for a second in an ankle holster. For purposes of his cover, he was grateful he’d thought to lock the Magnum in the concealed compartment in his trunk, but he felt lopsided and somewhat vulnerable without its comforting weight at his side.
And that was only half of it.
‘We’d better find somewhere for Starsk,’ he thought uneasily, ‘because right now I’m going in cold.’
Teresa expertly inserted one last pin and stepped back to examine her handiwork. She nodded in a self-satisfied way, then reached behind her for a short jacket made out of white velvet and trimmed with elaborate embroidery, also in white. “You’ll be wearing these types of jackets for the formal court scenes,” she told Hutch briskly in her lilting Welsh accent. “But we’ll get you out of them as soon as possible as they’re fairly constraining.” She held the jacket up for Hutch to shrug into, then smoothed it across his shoulders. Turning him back to face her, as if he were nothing more than a mannequin or a twelve-year-old boy, she closed the fasteners on the front, smoothed the jacket across his chest, and tugged at the sides to smooth out the line. Then she helped him buckle on the scabbard and sword, and stepped back again to get the full effect.
Her eyes swept from the detective’s blond hair, which was sun-bleached almost silver at this time of year, to his tanned, expressive face with its classic features, and down the lean frame. Well, she thought, he certainly looks the part. Now if he can only act... Somewhat uncomfortable under her scrutiny, Hutch felt the blush begin again.
“Boots,” Teresa mused, then ended her internal inventory and stepped toward him, unfastening the jacket and slipping it from his shoulders. “Now, I’m not one to tell actors to go on a diet,” she said in an authoritative tone, “But I wouldn’t go on any tremendous eating or drinking binges.” Hutch agreed silently; the costume fit like a glove, and he was grateful for the many hours he’d spent attending to his eating habits and working out at the gym. “And you’ve probably noticed this, but I’ll say it anyway to give myself peace of mind,” she went on. “This costume is white. That means no eating and no smoking while you’re wearing it, and don’t ever let me see you with a cup of coffee or soda when you’re anywhere near it.” She fixed him with an imperious gaze, and he stifled the urge to laugh.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, instead.
“Thank you,” she said. “You can go ahead and change - - try to dislodge as few of those pins as possible.”
Costume fitting completed, Drake led Hutch to the stage and introduced him to his fellow actors. He made a particular note of the actors playing Horatio and Ophelia, since he would have the bulk of his scenes with these two, but did his usual thorough job of memorizing names and faces as quickly as possible. He guessed that would be readily accepted--and even appreciated--since being a quick study was an asset for actors as well as detectives.
“Jim Harrison,” the Horatio introduced himself, taking Hutch’s hand in a firm grip and shaking it decisively. The other man was about Hutch’s age, a few inches shorter, with straight, dark brown hair that kept falling into his large, expressive eyes. Hutch guessed the “Good night, sweet prince” couplet would play to the back row with ease. “Damn, I’m glad to see he’s filled this part...I’ve been getting tired of acting with the stage manager.” He glanced out at the house, barely visible beyond the harsh glare of the worklights. “No offense, Lowell,” he called.
“None taken,” came back.
“And this,” Drake said with obvious fondness, drawing forward a young woman with auburn hair that tumbled down her back, “is Rosalind Berry, our Ophelia.”
Hutch raised an eyebrow. “Rosalind, eh? Don’t see many of those around.”
The tall, slender redhead rolled her eyes and laughed, a surprisingly hearty and infectious sound that put Hutch more at ease than he’d been since he walked in the door. “Ain’t it the truth?” she said mockingly. “As you can guess, my father had a Shakespeare fixation. Most people just call me Roz.”
“Rosalind’s father was one of the founding members of the company,” Drake said. His arm around the young woman’s shoulders, he beamed like the proud father himself, then his demeanor became sober. “He unfortunately died of cancer before he could see what a chip off the old block she is.”
Roz leaned her head on Drake’s shoulder, and it was clear the man’s affection was freely returned. “Wayne’s been my surrogate uncle ever since Dad passed away,” she explained to Hutch. “He’s a great guy. I think you’ll really enjoy working with us...at least I hope you do.”
“Me, too,” Hutch responded, thinking, ‘you don’t know the half of it.’
To Hutch’s relief, the first rehearsal was relatively painless. The entire play was already blocked, so Drake’s first priority was adding Hutch in. The director worked confidently and efficiently, beginning with the large crowd scenes and working down to those with just two or three actors. The company, too, was professional and efficient. While they were clearly enjoying themselves, they kept their eyes and ears on Drake and rarely let outside conversations interrupt the task at hand.
By the lunch break at 1:00, the scenes involving the entire company had been completed, and many of the actors had been dismissed for the day. Drake seemed to think things were going well, and Hutch was pleased to see that he seemed to have retained many of his skills. Of course, this was only a walkthrough, which didn’t require too much in the way of acting at this point. But Drake had set aside time each day, and some evenings, to work with Hutch individually and polish anything that wasn’t working.
The other actors were generally friendly and welcoming. He answered a few questions with the history he had memorized from his resume (luckily, most of the credits involved shows he had done in college), and they seemed satisfied that he had the credentials for the role. After some initial–and understandable–apprehension, they seemed to accept him, and invited him to join them for lunch at the deli down the street.
As they were walking back to the theatre after lunch, Roz dropped back from the rest of the group to talk with Hutch. “So,” she said amiably. “You’re the knight in shining armor, coming in just when we were wondering if this were going to happen after all.”
Hutch half-grinned. “Don’t say that until you’ve actually seen me act,” he warned.
“Oh, I trust Wayne’s instincts completely,” she assured him. “He says you can do it, and he’s usually right.” Her smile faded then, and she squinted off into the bright afternoon sunshine. “Except for Gretchen.”
“Who?”
“Gretchen Talbot. She’s the woman who disappeared last week.” Hutch apparently managed to look sufficiently mystified, because she went on, “Oh, that’s right...you don’t know about that.” They turned the corner and started down the last three blocks to the theatre. “Well, there’s not much more to tell, really...she was here for the first three weeks of rehearsal, and then suddenly, she just didn’t show up. Wayne called her apartment, and a couple of us even went by there, but nobody’s heard from her since.”
“Any ideas where she might’ve gone?”
“Well,” she said, somewhat reluctantly, “it’s not very nice, but some people think she just went off on a bender and is somewhere drying out. She did have a bit of a drinking problem.” They were at the stage door of the theatre now, in the alley where Carl Windsor had been shot. The actors, who had been talking and laughing the rest of the way, were suddenly quiet and subdued. Roz blinked several times, and Hutch could tell she was holding back tears. “I don’t understand why anyone would want to kill Carl, of all people,” she said fiercely. “He was a really great guy, and a master lighting designer.”
“Sounds like it was a big loss for all of you,” Hutch said sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, what do we care anyway? We’re just egomaniacal actors who only care about themselves and the size of their roles,” she said sharply. “It was bad enough when Gretchen disappeared, but then this...” She trailed off, then shook herself with a short laugh. “Sorry. You’re new to the place, and here I am, bringing you down.” She pulled open the door. “Come on, let’s get back to work...just don’t whistle in the dressing room or say the ‘M’ word. We’ve had enough bad luck as it is.”
Hutch grinned as he followed her into the dark wings. He remembered how he and his fellow students had thumbed their noses at the old acting superstitions, assiduously wishing each other “good luck,” and standing on the balcony after opening night, shouting “MACBETH” at the top of their lungs. Most times, nothing untoward came of it, but occasionally something weird would happen and they’d be roundly scolded by their fellow performers. Which, of course, only incited them to repeat the ritual, mostly to torment the others.
Come to think of it, it was kind of like him and Starsky.
CHAPTER 5
================================================================
“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”
- Act I, Scene IV
The room was dark and still; no daylight could penetrate the thick black curtains that hung over every window. On the walls hung posters from hundreds of productions, the first dating thirty years earlier. The bookcases overflowed with scripts, newspaper clippings, scrapbooks, and books about acting and the theatre. Otherwise, the room was like any other in the seedy long-term motel, with a narrow bed, a scarred breakfast table with two rickety chairs, a battered but still somehow stately wingback chair, and a single naked lightbulb hanging in the center.
The phone rang, and a hand reached from the depths of the wingback chair immediately.
“Yes?” The voice was smooth and cultured, widely at odds with the surroundings.
“It’s me.”
“Hello, me. What new news do you have today?”
“You have to think of something else to do.” The other voice was pressed and irritated, and lips twisted slightly into an indulgent smile.
“Oh, I have, have I? Have we lost sight of just who is in charge on this project?”
“Of course not...but I’m telling you, what we’ve done so far isn’t working...they’re still on.”
“What do you mean?”
“Drake managed to find a Hamlet.”
The eyes narrowed and the smile disappeared. There were several seconds of silence as one brain ticked furiously and the other waited to hear the results. “Well, now,” the cultured voice said at length, “that is fortunate for them, isn’t it?”
“But--”
“But really I don’t see how it changes our procedures.” The man paused, lifted a glass of wine from the floor, and took an appreciative sip. “Whom did he find?”
“I don’t know,” the voice on the other end replied. “I’ve never seen him around here. He says he’s from some regional theatre in the Midwest--name’s Ken Hyde.”
“Hyde, Hyde...no, rings no bells for me either.” Another sip of wine. “Well, I suggest you keep a bit of an eye on Mr. Hyde...perhaps see what you can find out about him. But otherwise our plans remain unchanged. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Fine. I’ll expect to hear from you at the usual time tomorrow.”
*********************************************
After rehearsal, Hutch headed back to the station to meet up with his partner. His head was spinning with acting details, not the least of which was learning a massive quantity of lines in just a week. He pulled into the station parking lot with a yawn and got out of the car, remembering to retrieve his gun from the trunk before he went inside. He was going to see if Starsky just wanted to go for dinner and a beer--he figured he deserved it, after this day. He planned to make his partner pay the tab, as penance for that stunt this morning. The thought revived him somewhat and he took the steps to the second floor two at a time.
To his surprise, Starsky wasn’t in the bullpen. There were stacks of records and an ominous note from Dobey about getting them refiled, but no dark-haired detective. Judging by the time on Dobey’s note, Starsky hadn’t been there for a couple of hours.
Oh, well. Hutch shrugged and headed toward his own side of the table they shared, donning and snapping his holster to his belt as he went. Starsky was probably still out tracking down information about the theatre company, or following some other lead that Hutch didn’t know about yet. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sank down into his chair, then spotted another note, this one on his desk blotter. It stated that things had been slow, and Starsky had gone home early, since they planned to work late that night. Hutch was instructed to head over to his partner’s when he got the message, and a postscript added that Starsky would order a half-pepperoni, half-veggie pizza for dinner, if Hutch was up for it.
Sounded as good as anything, Hutch thought, abandoning the cup of coffee and retracing his steps to his car. Besides, he was anxious to hear what Starsky had turned on the members of the company.
**********************************************
“Nothin’,” Starsky grumbled around a mouthful of pepperoni. He and Hutch were sitting on the floor in his apartment, the pizza and two half-emptied glasses of beer between them. “I never saw such a squeaky clean group in my life. Are you sure they’re not the Osmonds in disguise?” He swallowed, then leaned back against his couch with a satisfied sigh. “How about you? Find out anything during rehearsal?”
Hutch nodded but also rocked his hand in a “comme ci, comme ca” gesture. “Sort of,” he said. “Roz--the actor who’s played Ophelia--said that the woman who disappeared had an alcohol problem.”
Starsky tilted his head, and Hutch knew his partner’s sharp mind was mentally flipping through the pages of records he’d scoured that day. “What was her name again?”
“Talbot...Gretchen Talbot.”
“Oh, yeah--I do remember her,” Starsky said. “She was the only one of the bunch who had any priors. Mostly minor stuff--public intox, that kind of thing--but a coupla DUIs, too.”
“Hmm.” Hutch frowned, trying to make some kind of connection but having no luck. “You know, sometimes I hate this part,” he complained. “It’s like dusting off miles of solid rock, trying to find the two-inch crack, that leads you to the clue, that _might_ actually tell you something.”
“I know,” Starsky said sympathetically. Though he kind of enjoyed the early stages of an investigation, he knew that his results-oriented partner found the wide-sweeping arc of “possibles” and “maybes” occasionally frustrating. “But look at it this way...at least we’ve done some eliminating.”
“Yeah.” Hutch took a contemplative sip of his beer and considered things from another angle--mainly, with his eyes closed and his head tilted back on the seat of Starsky’s easy chair. He didn’t understand why he was so tired; they’d worked these kinds of shifts before, and he usually didn’t feel it until well after midnight. Of course, he generally tried to get more sleep the night before when that was the case.
“Hey,” Starsky said, brightening a little. “I remember one other thing, too--about Talbot and the guy that got burned the other day--”
“Windsor,” Hutch supplied, not moving from his relaxed position.
“Yeah. Anyway, she and Windsor were both founding members of the company.”
Hutch opened his eyes, interest renewed. “Yeah? Interesting. So was Roz’ father.”
“That might be something,” Starsky thought out loud. “Maybe I’ll nose around and see if there’s been any other mysterious disappearances.” He downed the last of his beer and reached for Hutch’s arm.
“What?”
“What time is it?” Hutch rolled his eyes as Starsky grabbed his wrist and looked at his watch. As usual, Starsky declined to look at the perfectly good wristwatch on his own arm, not to mention the two or three clocks that were scattered around his living room. “Almost nine--come on, we gotta go meet Huggy.” He rose, gathered the corpse of the pizza, and went into the kitchen to throw it away.
Hutch unfolded his long frame from the floor, and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. He yawned again and passed one hand over his face, trying to shake himself into some semblance of alertness. Starsky returned and saw the weary gesture.
“Hey,” he said, “you OK?”
“Yeah. I’m just tired.”
“I can do this alone, if you want to go home and get some Z’s.”
“Nah, I’d probably just stay up reading until the wee hours again.” Hutch shrugged into his jacket. “Come on...you know how Huggy gets if we keep him waiting.”
****************************************
Huggy Bear’s restaurant was hopping, as was typical for this hour of the night. Two attractive waitresses were handling the floor duties, and greeted the two detectives as they entered. Huggy was behind the bar, so they headed there first. As usual, the lean black man was resplendent, tonight in denim and a brightly colored shirt and hat. He acknowledged Starsky and Hutch, asked what they would have, then nodded toward a booth in the back of the bar.
The two detectives seated themselves first, then Huggy joined them with a cup of coffee for Hutch, a soda for Starsky, and a beer for himself. “Evening, gentlemen,” he said genially, sliding into the booth next to Hutch and across from Starsky. “Haven’t seen much of you today...aren’t you protectin’ us citizens like you’re s’posed to?”
“We’ve been lookin’ into a murder, Hug, and it’s kind of a weird one,” Starsky said, by way of opening explanations.
Huggy raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “Aren’t they all?” he queried, then grinned. “At least the ones you come to me with.”
Starsky grinned. “Yeah, you got a point there,” he said.
“Huggy, this guy got it with a bullet through his ears,” Hutch broke in. Huggy let out a whistle.
“Well, you’re right...that definitely makes the Weird Hit Parade.” He moved a toothpick to the other side of his mouth, and somehow managed to take a sip of his beer without swallowing the sliver of wood. “Whereabouts did this happen?”
“At a theatre--live, not movie,” Hutch replied. “The Bay Shakespeare Company performs there, and they’re having their ten year anniversary this year, so they’re reviving the first production they did.”
“And so far they’ve been having a great run...of bad luck,” Starsky chimed in. Huggy looked from one to the other with a quizzical expression on his face.
“I know you know this, but I’ll say it anyway...that ain’t exactly my neck of the woods.”
“Yeah, we know,” Starsky said. “But we thought you could maybe ask around, see if anyone knows about some nut with a burn pattern like this.”
Huggy shrugged. “Never heard of it...but I’ll do my best.” He drained his beer and rose from the booth, indicating Hutch’s cup and Starsky’s glass. “You guys gonna eat or just drink the kiddy stuff?”
“Nah, we ate at my place,” Starsky said. “Just the kiddy stuff for now.”
Huggy left, and the two detectives sat in silence for several seconds. Finally, Hutch sighed, reached into his wallet, and threw a few singles onto the table. “Well, sittin’ here isn’t going to get us anywhere.” He rose to his feet. “Come on, let’s go see and be seen.”
They knew what would happen if they didn’t show a regular presence on their beat. Someone would nose it around that they had been transferred, or wasted, or kicked off the force. Wishful thinking, for the most part, but the gossip on the street was worse than any girls’ school, and they didn’t want to deal with the crime spree that inevitably would follow. Fortunately, the Torino was visible enough, and distinctive enough, that a few hours of cruising would get the message across that it was business as usual.
It was a quiet night, and they got back to Starsky’s before midnight. Hutch declined one last beer for the road, and headed home. Starsky sat down on the floor of his living room and began to sift again through the notes he’d taken during his investigation that day. Maybe something would hit him now, maybe later. Maybe something Hutch would find out or say would send them both down the right track, as it had so many times before...or maybe Hutch would be puzzling over a hole and Starsky would know how to fill it.
He knew how they worked. He wasn’t worried.
CHAPTER 6
==================================================================
“...an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set
down with as much modesty as cunning.”
- Act II,
Scene II
Drake sat in the house, finger to his lips, eyes intent on the action on the stage. It was the end of the second week of rehearsal with his new Hamlet, and for the most part he was inordinately pleased. If this actor had shown up on his doorstep with his current resume (the real one, not the one that had been “doctored” to go on file) and asked to play the role, he probably would have been gracious, and polite--and turned him down flat. As it was, the unfortunate introduction had given him a wonderfully talented and complex Hamlet. Ken’s work as a police officer seemed to have given him a different layer than Drake had seen before--a sadness, or perhaps a world-weariness. Though making a living as an actor could be a difficult struggle, it probably wasn’t nearly as bad as the sights a homicide detective faced as part of his daily routine. But whatever the element was, Drake genuinely was enjoying helping Ken incorporate it into his performance, and had been consistently satisfied with the results.
Tonight, however, things were not going well, as they were working their way through the all-too-famous “To be or not to be” soliloquy. Hutch knew it was rough, and he felt lousy about it, and the worse he felt, the harder it became to deliver the lines with any kind of meaning. He knew he was pushing it, and he wanted to stop, but he didn’t know how to ask the director to let him rest.
Fortunately, he didn’t need to. After a final, strained effort, Drake rose from his seat, and walked down to the front of the house. “Let’s take a break, Ken, and have a chat.” Hutch came downstage and sat on the lip, feet dangling into the orchestra pit.
From the back row of the house, Roz watched with interest. As her father’s daughter, she was sort of an honorary founder of the company, so she had an additional investment in seeing the show succeed. She and Drake had worried for weeks when no suitable Hamlet would accept the role, and when Ken had shown up it had seemed miraculous. Wayne wouldn’t tell her how he had stumbled across this guy, but she was glad he had.
She watched now as Ken spoke animatedly to the director, then bent his head to listen closely to the response.
“This can be a very intimidating soliloquy,” Drake was acknowledging. “Too many actors see the spectre of Olivier before them and want to either imitate him or be as different as possible.” He gestured to Hutch. “Suppose you tell me what you think, Ken. I sense that you’re torn about what to do.”
“Exactly,” Hutch said. “I’m of two minds on this, and I’m not sure which one is right.”
“Tell me,” Drake encouraged.
“Well, one is fairly obvious--at least to me--and I’d rather not go that way. But on the other hand, I don’t want to discard the obvious choice, if that’s the right one.”
“I tend to eschew the obvious myself,” Drake said with a wry smile and a sigh. “But audiences and critics have certainly disagreed with me on that. Look, why don’t you start with the one you think is obvious? Remember, you’ve been studying Hamlet for a while now, so what seems banal to you may be startling to an audience.”
“All right.” Hutch gazed off, unseeing, into the house. “The obvious choice is that he’s considering suicide. He’s saying that he can no longer find a reason to live--and in fact, he’s seen enough despair and bleakness that he doesn’t understand why anyone would want to. But, he’s ambivalent--essentially, it’s to die or not to die--and torn between the relief of death and what he sees as his--obligation to avenge his father. In other words, the sole reason that he has to live is also the very thing that makes him want to die.”
“Very good analysis of the situation,” Drake said. Inwardly, he was delighted at his stroke of luck in finding this man. There weren’t many professional actors he had met who could understand the nuances that Hutch had expressed so well. “And what’s the other?”
“I think--that he’s trying to decide whether or not to be what he is expected to be.”
“Tell me more.” Drake leaned forward, intrigued.
Hutch frowned, searching for the words to articulate what was in his head. This one was harder because it wasn’t quite so obvious, but it wouldn’t leave him alone when he rehearsed the lines, so he had to give it some attention. “Well, he knows his father has been murdered,” he said at last. “That gives him a certain mandate, like I said before, to live up to the expectation that this society has of him to avenge his father’s death.” He paused and his frown deepened as he stared down at his hands. “But I think there’s more to it than that. I think Claudius has put this burden on him of how he ‘should’ behave as the Prince of Denmark--a particular role he is supposed to be playing, doing the ‘proper’ thing--and he doesn’t like it, it doesn’t fit. And a future of doing nothing but what Claudius and everyone else thinks he should do is pretty bleak, too, so--”
He stopped, struck by the parallels between this analysis of the soliloquy and his own history.
Drake waited for a moment, then when nothing else was forthcoming, he said thoughtfully, “Do you have to choose? Or are both relevant to what is going on?”
Hutch sat back, considering, then shook his head in frustration with himself. “Yes, of course both are relevant...I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”
“Detective--” Drake began without thinking, then stopped short, literally stunned by the transformation in the man in front of him. In less time than it took to blink, Ken had changed from actor to cop, his gaze level, hard, and blank. Not wanting to draw any more attention to them if they had been overheard, he held himself completely still, while his eyes flicked around the stage, the first few rows of seats, and the wings. Tilting his head ever so slightly, he took in the area behind him, and was relieved to see that no one seemed to be nearby. Roz was too far from the stage to have heard; so he thought, perhaps, they were safe.
Drake had the good grace to look abashed, though he followed Hutch’s cue and was careful not to overreact. “I apologize, Ken,” he said, in the same gentle, professorial tone he had been using during their discussion. “I assure you, it won’t happen again.” Hutch relaxed, and Drake was intrigued to see how quickly and readily the actor returned. “Now, where were we?”
“Trying both choices,” Hutch said. Though the director’s mention of his title had given him a nasty start, there was nothing to be gained by dwelling on it, and this was work that needed to be done.
“Ah, yes,” Drake said. “I think every actor who plays Hamlet has a love-hate relationship with this speech, because there is a fear that it has been done so much that one is obligated to create something new and startlingly different. But if you do that, then you are up there as the actor, not as Hamlet...and that’s not we’re here for.” He paused and took a sip of his coffee, appreciating how intently the blond man was listening to his words. “If all else fails, just say the words as simply and honestly as possible, and trust this marvelous text to get the message across. Don’t fight it--work with it, and it will help carry you where you need to go.”
Hutch nodded. Despite himself, he was getting caught up in the discussion--and this assignment. The murder investigation aside, he had been given the opportunity to play one of the most coveted and challenging roles in all of theatre. For the sake of his cover and his own high standards, he wanted to do the best possible job; it was an unexpected bonus that he was enjoying it so much.
Roz watched from the back of the theatre, leaning her folded arms on the seat in front of her, and then resting her chin on them. Though she couldn’t hear what they were saying, she loved watching Drake at work. He was the quintessential actor’s director, knowing when to chide or cajole or praise, and possessed of an adept ability to do all three with genuine courtesy and respect for his actors. Most of all, he seemed to intuitively understand the dichotomy that dwelt in many actors’ egos--that vacillation between supreme confidence and almost-crippling insecurity. From the way he and Ken were talking, she could imagine the kind of in-depth character discussion that was taking place. She could easily envision how much richer Ken’s performance would be because of it.
And she had to admit to herself, she was becoming drawn to
the lean blond man, and in more than a professional way. Though he was understandably nervous about
stepping into so large a role on short notice, in an established company with a
reputation for tight relationships, he was handling it with aplomb--and,
incidentally, doing a beautiful acting job.
Where did you come from, Ken Hyde? she thought, then dimpled
playfully to herself. And where are you going after this is all over with?
“You might want to try something that has been successful for other actors,” Drake said now to Hutch, who had his script in his hand again and was reviewing the soliloquy. “Examine each line and see how it applies to the different intents and choices we’ve been talking about, and how it relates to what will happen next for the character.”
“OK,” Hutch nodded. The advice appealed to his studious, meticulous side, and he began to plan how he would accomplish the task.
“Then, when you’ve done that, forget about it.”
Hutch looked from his script to the director, one eyebrow raised. “Forget about it?” he echoed, bemused.
“Yes.” When Hutch still looked puzzled, Drake went on. “You won’t really forget about it, of course...because you’ll have formed in your mind a--structure for how the lines fit into the big picture. But while you’re actually saying the line, you can’t be thinking at each minute, ‘And this one means this, and this one that, and this is the foreshadowing...’ As I said, if you do that, it’s the actor up there, and not the character.”
Again, Hutch understood, and the rightness of the approach was immediately apparent to him.
“Very well.” Drake glanced at his watch and mentally calculated how much time they had left. “Let’s--take this from the top of the scene, shall we...to give you a running start? Then we’ll run through this once more and wrap up for the night.” He turned out to the house. “Lowell, would you please call Ophelia, Gertrude, Polonius, and Claudius to the stage please...and read Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?”
Hutch prepared to take his place in the stage right wing as the stage manager gathered the other actors together. As he rose to his feet, however, Drake called him to the apron again. His expression was very serious.
“I think it’s important for you to be aware of just what you have accomplished here, Ken. You have done an extraordinary job in this role...particularly given the short amount of time you have had to prepare. I know this is a very difficult passage, but it will come. Don’t fret.”
Hutch chuckled to himself. Was he that obvious to everyone? He thought only Starsky knew him that well. “Thanks, Wayne,” he said sincerely. “I’ll do my best.”
“Of this, I have no doubt.” Drake smiled, then backed up the aisle, calling as he went. “All right, ladies and gentlemen, from the top of Act III. Please proceed when you are ready.”