The Sandman by Robert Ward Read Free Book Online Page B

and disappear. Funny, Beauregard thought, all the hell raised in the 60’s about the New Consciousness and the only thing to come out of it was a lot of babbling, humorless nonsense about space and biorhythms. It made one recall the old line “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing,” with a new respect for the Bard’s wisdom. It had all seemed so damned profound at the time. Hell, he’d even tried a group therapy session on one of those marathon weekends with Heather. All that had been achieved was several levels of hysteria, and Beauregard had proved a terrific flop at hysteria.
    Up ahead, Beauregard recognized Morris Blaustein, one of the principal backers of the show. Blaustein was a successful young lawyer, agent, and P.R. man, a kind of hip P. T. Barnum. Beauregard had met Blaustein through Lauren, and now he smiled at him, wondering if Blaustein would remember him.
    “Beau,” Blaustein said, moving through a group of tuxedoed men and signaling to the police to let Beauregard through.
    “Hello, Morris,” Beauregard said, shaking his hand. “Well, this is quite a night.”
    Blaustein smiled and shook his head.
    “You’ll like Lauren,” he said. He emphasized the last word and then patted Beauregard on the back and went over to some more tuxedoed men who looked nervous. Beauregard recognized one of them as Billy Acton, the playwright. Acton was a big, lumbering guy and he looked ill-clad in a tuxedo. He was sweating profusely and his eyes darted to and fro, over to Marion Mott and Phillip Desmond, the critics for the
Post
and
Times.
Tonight, they were his judges, and Beauregard felt pity for the poor guy.
    Beauregard watched as more limos arrived and more stars appeared. Each one of them got a special greeting from Morris Blaustein. Beau found himself enamored of the whole scene. Tonight was fun, a good night. Enough of the hospital, the sick, the dying, the hopeless, the stupidity and arrogance of the surgeons. Lord, let him relax and have a good time. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his tickets, and went inside the theater and directly to his seat.
    Morris walked down the aisle toward Beauregard and sat down next to him. Beauregard felt both delighted and wary. Blaustein never did anything without a motive.
    “I’m really glad you could make the play tonight, Beau,” Blaustein said, in his suede voice.
    “Yes, it’s just what I needed.”
    “Just what Lauren needed, too,” Blaustein said.
    “How’s that?” Beauregard said.
    “Well, I don’t have to tell you that she’s become very, very fond of you. She seems a little stage-struck.”
    Beauregard managed a laugh.
    “Come on. Lauren and I are …”
    “Just good friends?” Blaustein laughed. “I know. But she likes you very, very much. She gets so tired of show people. Everybody wants a piece of her now that she’s making it big. And it’s not easy for her to turn them down. She’s a very generous person. But it takes a lot out of her.”
    Beauregard got the distinctly unpleasant feeling that he was being led somewhere, somewhere he had been led before. By patients who feared the worst.
    “Has she been tired?” he said.
    “Very,” Blaustein said.
    His voice was grave, and yet even as he delivered the bad news, he saw another theater critic, Joyce Katel of the News, and he managed a sparkling smile and a gay little wave.
    “She complains of head pains.”
    “Headaches?”
    “Well, yes, I suppose,” Blaustein said, “but she calls them head pains. She says she knows what a headache feels like and this isn’t it.”
    “Hmmmmm. Depression. I’ll have a talk with her.”
    “Good,” Blaustein said. “After the show we’re having a cast party at Sardi’s. It’s probably nothing, Doctor; she hasn’t done Broadway for some time and she is most likely going through that whole footlight trauma … you know … they never outgrow it.”
    “Good Lord,” Beauregard said. “I should say not. I wouldn’t want to be up