Pity Him Afterwards

“I see. And what do you do for a living, in New York, when you’re not acting?”

“I collect unemployment insurance.”

“Do you attend drama classes?”

“No. That stuff’s a farce. Makework for losers.”

Again it was Professor Sondgard rather than Captain Sondgard who analyzed and typed this boy. He was another common type on college campuses: arrogant and opinionated, but with the quick mind and facile ability to back up his boasting with performance. This type usually had only the resilience and adaptability of youth to rely on, and once youth was gone they were bereft and bitter.

With less irritation, now that he had placed Henley, Sondgard asked him, “How old are you now?”

“Twenty-seven.”

So he had a few years left before the decline. He was welcome to them. Sondgard glanced at his notes and asked, “Have you ever had any trouble with the police? Aside from parking tickets and things like that.”

“Drunk and disorderly one time in LA,” said Henley carelessly. “A bunch of us had a party down at the beach. It got a little out of hand.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“All right. Now, about this afternoon. You were at the rehearsal.”

“If you could call it that.”

Sondgard raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t care for it?”

“Paid amateurs,” said Henley.

“Today was the first day of rehearsals, wasn’t it?”

“You don’t need to smell a rotten egg for an hour to know it’s bad.”

“Well, never mind about that. You were at the rehearsal. Did you leave the room at any time?”

“Of course. It was a waste of time for most of us to be there anyway. Campbell and Lane were doing all the rehearsing.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Around two-thirty.”

“And how long were you gone?”

“Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes. I went upstairs and had a cigarette.”

“So you got back to the room around quarter to three.”

“Roughly.”

“Roughly, yes. Do you remember any of the others leaving the rehearsal at any time during the afternoon?”

“Sure. They all did, sooner or later. It wasn’t what you’d call an inspired afternoon.”

“Did anyone leave after your smoke break?”

Henley shrugged. “I don’t know, I suppose so. I wasn’t paying much attention.”

“But you weren’t concentrating on the rehearsal either. What were you thinking about?”

“New York. I should have stayed there this summer.” His sudden smile was surprisingly open and pleasant. “I knew it even before that girl got herself killed.”

“Got herself killed?”

“You never saw her in action, huh?”

“No.”

“She kept throwing it around. So somebody made the catch.”

“Did she throw it toward you?”

Will Henley’s smile this time was mocking. “I wear pants,” he said. “That means she did. But it doesn’t mean I killed her. I don’t have to kill them.”

“All right,” said Sondgard, wondering what Joyce would think of that when she came to it in the transcribing. “I guess that’s all. Send Rod McGee in, will you?”

“Sure.” Henley got to his feet, and Sondgard could see why he’d been cast as a football player in that commercial. Although he wasn’t particularly tall — around five eight — there was a massive quality to him. At first he seemed fat, but it wasn’t fat. Will Henley was solid, and probably very strong.

Henley left the room, and a minute later Rod McGee came in. The contrast between the two was complete. McGee was thin as a rail, with a wiry look to him, and he seemed to radiate nervous energy, as though he would make a spark if you touched him. And as Will Henley looked somewhat older than his twenty-seven years, Rod McGee surely looked younger than he really was. He had a bony and unlovely face, with strikingly bright brown eyes, and the eager open expression of a teen-ager. He looked to be no more than nineteen or twenty.

He came over and bounced down onto the chair. “Is that a Wollensack?” His quick fingers tapped the tape recorder.

“Yes.”

“An old one, or one of the new ones?”

“I don’t know how old it is.”

“It was a better machine before, when the German company owned it. Now it’s a subsidiary of Revere. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t. What is Rod short for? Robert?”

“No, my name is Fredric, and then it went to Fred, and then it went to Rod.”

“All right. Excuse me a second.” He started the machine and said, “Preliminary questioning of Fredric McGee, known as Rod McGee. How old are you, Rod?”

“Twenty-six.”

“And your permanent address?”

“You want my folks’, or where I live in New York?”

“Do you have a permanent address in New York?”

“Yeah, 37A Carmine Street.”

“Have you been employed at this theater before this summer?”

“No, never. I just got here yesterday. First time I’ve ever been in this part of the country at all. I like it.”

“Good. Now, please, give me a brief autobiography. Where you’ve lived, what jobs you’ve held, your theatrical background.”

“Oh, well, let me see. You want addresses?”

“No, just the city, and during what period you lived there.”

“Well, let me see. Albany, New York, to begin with. I mean, I was born there. And grew up there. I had part-time jobs when I was a kid... do you want those?”

“No, not particularly.”