Violets & Violence by Morgan Parker Read Free Book Online Page B

before heading to the airport.
     
     
     
     
    By this time of year, New York City’s colors had changed from green to yellow and orange, which seemed odd because Detroit was marginally farther north and our colors hadn’t changed this noticeably. And the air in New York felt colder too, at least compared to what I had left behind, which I blamed on an unseasonably warm Fall and the recent abnormal weather systems. The chilled wind whipped at my face and numbed my exposed fingers as I surfaced onto 7 th Ave from the subway station and headed for Times Square. I steered right, cutting through the crowds at the Bank of America building, then continued along 46 th , passing the Edison and a long line of yellow cabs.
    The Imperial Theater didn’t look like the happiest place in the world. A brown-brick building with bars protecting its street level windows and dented, steel doors that were supposed to look like gold, this theater looked like the homeless kid on the block. The Paramount across the street with its elegant, white-stone façade looked rich in comparison.
    I glanced up and spotted the third floor balcony, more of an escape route than a luxury, and wondered how Les Misérables had enjoyed such a long run here. It wasn’t the type of place whose exterior left much of an impression.
    “Mr. Kemble?” I heard behind me.
    I pivoted on my heels as Lindsey from the Shubert Organization pushed open the back door of a Lincoln Town Car. She wore a conservative skirt, not the sexy style that Violet would wear tonight at the Fisher, but that didn’t take away from Lindsey’s youthful and somewhat plain yet familiar attractiveness. She didn’t wear much makeup, but given her slim build, big brown eyes, and long straight hair that she had pulled back into a bun of some sort, she didn’t need much help in the prettiness department. I held out my hand to help her out of the car and onto the sidewalk, averting my eyes as I considered this woman. Where have I seen you before?
    “Thank you,” she said, smiling.
    And that was when I noticed her smile, too perfect to be as natural as the rest of her. It’s coming back to me, my memory of you, but it’s still a little too deep to touch.
    “How was your flight?” she asked
    “Perfect,” I told her, then made a show of checking the time, holding my sleeve away from the Patek watch a little longer than necessary. Yes, I wanted her to notice, wanted her to start a conversation about the watch. “You’re early.”
    “That’s a beautiful watch,” she said dismissively—but she noticed and that was what counted because only someone exposed to this kind of watch would notice it—then stepped up to one of the large, metal doors. She used a key to unlock it, then waved me inside before locking it up again once we were in the dark, employee-only entrance. “We’ll make our way to the front of the house,” she said. “Follow me.”
    I followed her, noticing the hallways still reeked from the warmth and activity of the previous show.
    “As you know, Les Mis occupied these facilities for quite a while,” she explained. Once we reached the front lobby, she stopped and waved at the vast space. The cliché about not judging a book by its cover applied when it came to the Imperial; this theater’s interior was the polar opposite of its exterior. “Very little work is needed here,” she said while I admired our surroundings with a tilted gaze.
    “It’s not an issue for our type of show,” I assured her. “I’m more interested in seeing the stage, below the stage, the accommodations and, most importantly, the lighting capabilities. Lighting is extremely important to what I do.”
    “Ah, yes,” she said with a grin that failed to convince me that she knew what really mattered to a show like ours. “Lighting. Whatever we’re lacking, we can easily accommodate so that our facility aligns with your specifications, Mr. Kemble.”
    “Luke,” I said.
    She chuckled and