“What is?”
“WHO CARES IF BANKS FAIL IN YONKERS?”
JON L. BREEN is the author of eight novels, two of them shortlisted for Dagger Awards, and over one hundred short stories. His most recent book is The Threat of Nostalgia and Other Stories. A long-time reviewer and columnist for Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and Mystery Scene, he has won two Edgar Awards for his critical writings. A resident of Southern California, he nevertheless loves New York.
TRAPPED!
A MYSTERY IN ONE ACT
Ben H. Winters
SETTING
Studio L, an unremarkable rehearsal studio in a warren of unremarkable rehearsal studios, collectively known as the Meyers-Pittman Studio Complex, located on the sixteenth floor of a tall nondescript building in Chelsea, a couple blocks south and one long avenue over from Port Authority. The walls are mirrored; the floor is marked with tape; tables and chairs are clustered to represent the location of furniture on the real set.
Downstage right is a props table, laden with all manner of weaponry. The play in rehearsal is the Broadway thriller “Deathtrap” by Ira Levin, and the table displays the full range of weaponry called for in that show, viz., “a collection of guns, handcuffs, maces, broadswords, and battle-axes”
CAST
PATRICK WOLFISH, the stage manager, wears black boots, black clothes, and a black attitude. He sits scowling with arms crossed, projecting the combination of administrative prowess and social awkwardness that is the hallmark of technical personnel.
ELSIE WOODRUFF, the director, is young and smart. While others speak, she nods and furrows her brow, as if she’s evaluating their ideas to rate them on a scale of one to four stars. When she’s speaking, she gestures a lot, as if she feels she must constantly be directing everything.
LEWIS CANNON, the fifty-something actor playing Sidney Bruhl, wears sunglasses indoors and has an unlit cigarette behind his ear. He talks slowly, with the pompous self-regard befitting a star much bigger than he is.
MARCUS VOWELL, the good-looking young actor playing the good-looking young playwright Clifford Anderson, is theatrical, even for a theater person. He is very butch to look at, with well-muscled arms and a prominent jaw, but his affect is high camp, in that way that is utterly delightful for the first thirty seconds or so.
DETECTIVE MA WONG works homicide for the New York City Police Department. Her manner is no-nonsense, in sharp contrast to the abundant nonsense all around her.
TRAPPED!
At rise, DETECTIVE WONG is standing thoughtfully beside the props table, turning a page in her notebook. After a moment, a second pool of light opens far upstage right, discovering PATRICK WOLFISH seated in a chair, his crossed arms signaling irritation and displeasure. Their conversation has an impressionistic feel, as both speak directly to the audience.
WONG: “Deathtrap.” That’s a play?
PATRICK: Yes. It’s a play. About a murder. Actually, it’s a play about a play about a murder. “A young playwright sends his first play to an older playwright who conducted a seminar that the young playwright attended.” That’s the description of the play within a play, but it’s the same as the play. Both plays are called “Deathtrap.” Very meta. The twist—actually, the first of the twists—
WONG: (raises her hand) I just wanted to confirm that it’s a play.
PATRICK: Yes. It’s a play.
WONG: So that explains the weapons.
PATRICK: Yeah. It’s in the stage directions. “The room is decorated with framed theatrical window cards and a collection of guns, handcuffs, maces, broadswords, and battle-axes.”
WONG: Can you quote the whole play?
PATRICK: It’s my job.
WONG: You’re the stage manager?
PATRICK: Yes. It’s my job to know the script. Also to organize and manage rehearsals, to ensure a safe and productive working environment, to—
WONG: (raises her hand) I just wanted to confirm that you’re the stage manager.
PATRICK: Yes.
WONG: And you’ve worked with the producer Otto Klein in the past?
PATRICK: Nine shows and counting.
WONG: Well, just nine. Mr. Klein has been beaten to death, remember, Mr. Wolfish? His body was found this morning stuffed between the snack machine and the … (She refers to her notes.) The Dr. Pepper machine.
PATRICK: Right. Yeah. I know.
(WONG fishes in her pocket and holds up a cell phone.)
WONG: And do you know what this is?
PATRICK: It’s a phone.
WONG: It’s Mr. Klein’s phone. Would you read this text, please?
(She holds it higher; PATRICK leans forward and squints, reading the tiny screen.)
PATRICK: But—but I didn’t send this. Why would I send this?
WONG: I had the exact same question.
PATRICK: But I didn’t send it. Seriously. I lost my phone yesterday.
WONG: Where?