The Girl at the End of the Line by Charles Mathes Page B

asked.
    â€œOh, indeed. And just as beautiful as Dickie. His name was
originally Plotkin, as I recall. Anyway Bobby and Dickie were always up for the same parts and they became inseparable. I’d see them at the same auditions and the same bars. They were always hanging around together. If anyone would know what happened to Dickie it would be Bobby Prince. He’s been retired for years, but I shall track him down and give him a call on your behalf this very instant. It’s the least I can do.”
    â€œIt’s not too late to call?” said Molly. Her watch had stopped hours ago, but it had to be after midnight.
    â€œOf course it’s too late, but this is for old times’ sake. Now who would have his number? Nick Lawlor? Suzy Winston? Chita? I’ll have to check around.”
    Obviously relishing the prospect of waking half the people in New York, Tuck bounced up from his chair and headed toward a bank of telephones near the restrooms. Someone turned up the volume on the jukebox, which was blaring show tunes. A guy from another table came over and without a word pulled Nell off to a small open area where people were dancing. Molly nervously watched her go, then looked over to find herself alone at the table with the unpleasant actor who had played the DA in the play.
    â€œWhy doesn’t your sister talk?” he said, taking a sip of his scotch.
    â€œI’d rather not go into that if you don’t mind,” said Molly, trying to be polite. “It’s very complicated.”
    â€œYou’re her keeper?”
    No, she didn’t like him at all.
    â€œI’m her sister,” Molly said evenly and turned away, using every ounce of body language she could muster to let the man know how she felt about him. It didn’t work. He scooted over into the chair next to hers.
    â€œYou live together in North Carolina?” he asked.
    â€œHow did you know we’re from North Carolina?”

    â€œYou mentioned it. Liz asked if you were from the moon. You said North Carolina, though I could tell anyway from your accent.”
    â€œI don’t have any accent. Y’all are the ones with accents. Do you always listen to other people’s conversations?”
    â€œSometimes. So how long have you been taking care of your sister?”
    â€œWhat is this? An interrogation? The play is over. You’re not really a courtroom lawyer, you know.”
    â€œI am, actually.”
    Molly gave this the look it deserved.
    â€œNo, it’s true,” he said, cracking a smile, the first one Molly had seen from him, onstage or off. “I was an assistant district attorney in Stamford, Connecticut. The woman who wrote the play you saw tonight served on a jury of a case I tried. When Longwharf first presented Bank Street Story, they couldn’t find anybody believable for the prosecutor so she persuaded the producers to give me an audition. I hated my job and desperately wanted to change my life. They offered me the part, and I grabbed it. When the play moved to Broadway, I came along. My name’s David in case you didn’t read your program. David Azaria.”
    â€œMolly O’Hara. As I’m sure you’ve overheard. I enjoyed your performance tonight. Sort of.”
    â€œThanks. Sort of.”
    They sat in awkward silence for a moment.
    â€œSo are you going back to being a lawyer when the play closes?” Molly said finally, just to get him to stop staring at her.
    â€œNope,” he said. “Not that I like acting so much. The rehearsals are great, but after the first month of performances I was so bored I was ready to shoot myself. Then I started appreciating it from a deeper perspective. Doing the exact same sequence of actions, night after night, can be very Zen if you let it. Like the
Japanese tea ceremony. I’m using the time to learn more about the craft. Already casting directors are fighting over me for daytime TV, and I’m doing