THE MAN IN THE PALACE THEATER

By Ray Garton

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

Please Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used ficticiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For more information about the author, please visit his website at Ray Garton Online

Copyright 2004, 2012 by Ray Garton. All rights reserved.

Originally published in 2004 in the U.S. by Subterranean Press.

Cover art by Paul Howalt

eBook design by Vince Fahey

For my friend, Damian Wild

John bumped into people as he hurried down the sidewalk, and he kept saying, "'Scuse me, 'scuse me." He did not have enough money for cab fare, and he didn't have exact change for the bus, so he alternated between walking fast and jogging. It was a warm, sunny day and he itched with perspiration under his clothes. He'd been at it for quite a while, and he was winded by the time he reached the building where Carol worked.

He stepped inside and stood in the lobby a moment to catch his breath.

A uniformed guard in his fifties with a big belly straining his blue shirt sat behind the front desk and stared suspiciously at him.

John took a deep breath, then headed for the elevators.

"Wait a second, wait just a second," the guard said. He came out from the behind the desk and approached John. "Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see someone," John said.

"Who are you here to see?"

"Carol. Carol Kramer. She's upstairs. She works at SilverScreen magazine."

"Come over here." The guard walked over to the desk and beckoned John to follow him. "Carol Kramer, you say?" He picked up a phone, consulted a list. "Just a minute, wait right here." He sat down and spoke quietly into the phone. "Someone here to see you, Miss Kramer." He looked up at John. "Your name?"

"John. John Bellows."

"John Bellows." The guard turned away from him and said something into the phone too softly for John to hear. He waited a moment, then replaced the receiver. "She'll be right down," he said.

He waited. It seemed a long time, and he had difficulty holding still. He paced for a while, then walked in a circle a couple of times, then paced again. Finally, the elevator rang and opened. John turned as Carol came out and looked around. Her eyes flitted by him twice.

"Carol?" he said as he went toward her.

She looked at him and her eyes widened as her mouth opened slowly. "Johnny?"

"You've got to come with me, Carol," he said. "I have something to show you." He took her hand. "Can you come with me now?"

"Wait a second, Johnny, you've … where have you been?" Her eyes moved up and down his frame. "My god, you've … you've lost so much weight and, well, you're … a mess."

"That's not important. What's important is this, this thing I have to show you. You can take a break, can't you? It won't take long. And you won't believe it, it'll blow you away, Carol, I promise, it's unlike anything you've ever seen before."

Carol looked great, as usual. When John worked with her at SilverScreen, she was always the smartest-dressed person in the building. She was short, blonde, and always had been a little plump, but she looked like she'd dropped a few pounds. He hadn't seen her in … how long? He couldn't remember. They'd become good friends at the magazine and he was suddenly struck by how much he'd missed her.

She looked at him for a long time without speaking, and her eyes narrowed slightly. Small creases appeared between her furrowed eyebrows.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" John said.

Carol spoke quietly and with concern. "Well … it's been so long, Johnny. I've called you … I don't know how many times. I kept dropping by your house, but there was never anyone home, and the last time I came by, it was up for sale. And now … well, I didn't even recognize you at first."

"Oh, the beard? Yeah, I sort of gave up on shaving. In fact — " He looked down at his clothes and realized he'd been wearing them for … he wasn't sure how long, but it had been a while. The theater had consumed his life. "I guess I'm kind of a mess. But that's not important, Carol." He put his hands on her shoulders. "Please come with me. This is … it's … well, you just have to see it."

She stepped back away from him and frowned as she looked nervously around the lobby. When she turned to him again, he saw the caution in her eyes, even a little suspicion. "Johnny, I haven't seen you in a long time. You disappeared. Now you show up in the middle of the day and … you expect me to just walk away from work with you?"

"It's important, Carol. I need someone else to see it, and … well, I don't have anyone else to go to."

"Where do you want to take me?"

"Look, I know this sounds crazy, but I'd rather just take you there than try to explain it here."

She glanced around the lobby again, scratched her head. "Are you all right, Johnny?"

"I'm fine."

Her eyes narrowed with doubt.

"Okay. Maybe I'm not … fine, exactly. But I'm not crazy. Carol, you're my only friend. You're … the only person I've got left."

"Well, I don't know. I'm kind of busy, but … " She checked her watch. "Okay, but I can't be gone long, and I have to go back upstairs first. I'll be right back." She turned and hurried for the elevator.

John paced as he waited for her, and the guard at the desk watched him closely. A few minutes later, Carol came back out of the elevator with her purse slung over her shoulder.

"Okay, what do you want to show me?" she said.

"It's a long walk, so maybe we should take a cab. I-yum … I'm afraid I don't have enough on me for cab fare."

"We have to take a cab? How far away is it?"

"By cab, it's not far. I promise. It won't take long."

She sighed. "Okay. Let's go."

Outside, it took a few minutes to hail a cab. In the backseat, Carol said, "Where are we going?"

John leaned forward and said to the driver, "Do you know where the Palace Theater is?"

"What?" Carol said. "The Palace Theater? Are you kidding?"

The cab driver, a small dark-skinned balding man, nodded once and said nothing, just pulled away from the curb.

"Johnny, that theater has been closed since the early nineties," Carol said.

"I know, I know, but you won't regret this, I promise. It … it's indescribable."

Carol continued to frown at him and spoke softly. "You, uh … you don't look like you're doing too well, Johnny."

"Oh, I'm fine, don't worry about me."

She made no effort to conceal her disbelief. "Are you still writing?"

"Writing?" He thought about that for several seconds. He used to write for SilverScreen, and then he'd had a syndicated column about the movies for a few years. His columns had been collected in a book that had met with modest success. He even had written a script that was produced and got some attention at film festivals. But then, everything had gotten dark, as if someone had turned out the lights on his life. "No. No. I haven't written anything in a while. The theater has taken up most of my time."

"The theater? You mean … the Palace?"

"Yeah, the Palace. It's the most amazing thing, Carol. See, when I was a kid, my dad used to take me there every Saturday. That was back in the seventies. It was a revival house back then, and they showed nothing but old movies, the classics, with cartoons, and even serials. My dad, he was a cop, and he worked so much, that was just about the only time I got to be with him, really." John squinted, remembering. "Seems like that was the only time I saw him out of his uniform, on those Saturdays. Anyway, one day a few months ago, I was walking by, wandering around town, and I wanted to go inside, just to see what it looked like now. I went down the alley and found a side door that had been pried open a long time ago, and I went inside. It was dark, but my eyes adjusted. It's old and run down, of course. I mean, it's a mess inside. But then something happened. Something incredible."

"What?"

John smiled. "Like I said, it's indescribable. If I tried to explain it to you, you'd never believe me."

"Try me."

"No, you'll have to wait and see for yourself."

Carol reached over and took his hand. "Johnny, are you sure you're all right?"

"Sure, sure, I'm fine."

"No offense, honey, but you don't look fine. I'm worried about you."

"I appreciate it, Carol, I really do.” He chuckled. “Seems like it's been a long time since anybody worried about me. But don't worry, I'll be fine."

The cab pulled over in front of the boarded-up theater. The marquee over the entrance was naked and white. The word PALACE used to be spelled out in lights on the vertical sign that rose above the marquee, but all the lights had been broken long ago. The plexiglass was gone from the old box office, which was now little more than the skeletal frame of a booth.

The Palace had opened during the depression. True to its name, it was more than just a movie theater, it was a movie palace. John remembered the red carpeting inside and the two curved staircases, one on each side of the lobby, that led up to the balcony. He remembered the beautiful music that came from the enormous pipe organ in the auditorium.

Carol paid the cab driver and they got out. On the sidewalk, she turned to John and said, "You actually want me to go in there with you? C'mon, Johnny, it can't be safe in there."

"Don't worry, I've got a flashlight just inside the door. Stick with me and you'll be fine. I know my way around in there. Come on." He led her away from the front of the theater and down an alley that ran beside it. They came to a battered old metal door. "It sticks," John said, then kicked it hard with his right foot. Its hinges squealed as it swung open. He went in first, reached down to the right of the door and picked up a flashlight. He turned it on, and said, "Come on, let's go."

"I don't know, Johnny."

He stood in front of her, looked in her eyes. "I know it's been a while since we've seen each other, Carol, but you still trust me, don't you? You know I'd never let you get hurt."

She sighed. "Okay, I'll trust you. But I don't like it."

He led her through what appeared to be a short tunnel; it had been an exit when the theater was open for business. The flashlight's beam cut through the darkness ahead of them. John reached back, took Carol's hand and led her into the auditorium.

The beam passed over the backs of old seats, then moved up to sweep across the once-beautiful rococo ceiling. Now, everything was black and delapidated. Where there once had been ornate opera boxes there were now only enormous yawning holes in the high walls. The screen, torn and marred by graffiti, was a ghostly bone-colored rectangle that overlooked the darkness. The air in the theater was stale and dusty, with whiffs of urine and feces.

John led her up a side aisle toward the screen and then along the front row to a center seat.

"Most of the seats are broken," he said, "but I found one here in front that's held up. The cushions are gone from most of them, of course, but I brought in a pillow to sit on. Here, take my seat." He turned the flashlight on a seat that was folded down with a pillow where the cushion used to be.

Carol looked at the seat for a moment, then up at the screen, then down at the floor. Around the chair was a clutter of junk-food wrappers, fast-food bags, cups with straws still in the lids, and a few Chinese food cartons.

"Johnny," she said, "have you been … living in here?"

"No, not living in here, not … not exactly, no. But I've been spending a lot of time here. You'll see why soon. Go ahead, sit down. We might have to wait a few minutes. I'll need to turn off the flashlight, but don't worry, your eyes will adjust to the dark." He clicked it off and left them in darkness. "Sit down."

Carol slowly, cautiously lowered herself into the seat.

"Sometimes it takes a little while," John whispered as he hunkered down in front of her.

Carol whispered, too: "Sometimes it takes a little while for what?"

"You'll see. They only come in the dark."

"Who only comes in the dark?"

"You're going to think I'm crazy."

"Tell me, Johnny."

"This theater … it's haunted."

She said nothing. John's eyes adjusted and he could see the dark mask of her face looking at him.

When she finally spoke, she stopped whispering. "Johnny, where are you living now?"

"That's not important. Just wait a little while longer."

"Johnny, I … I'm not sure what to … I think … I think you need help."

"Shh, I don't think we should talk," he whispered. "I've never brought anyone in here before and maybe our talking will keep them away."

"Are you serious, Johnny? I mean, this is — "

"Sshhh."

Carol sighed and said no more.

They waited.

Something skittered over the gritty floor behind them and Carol gasped.

"It's just rats," John said.

"Just rats?"

"Shh."

Carol's seat squealed as she squirmed in it.

There were small sounds all around them in the dark, things crawling on the floor, and Carol gasped each time she heard them.

Five minutes passed. Seven minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

"Johnny, I don't want to be here anymore."

"Please, Carol, wait just a little longer. I don't understand, it usually doesn't take this long. I wonder if it's because you're here."

Carol stood. "I'm leaving, Johnny.

"No, wait, please." He stood in front of her, put a hand on her upper arm. "Please, wait. It's … it's like nothing you've ever seen before, Carol, I swear, it's incredible, and if you wait just a little while longer, you'll see what I — "

"You need help, Johnny. Are you taking drugs? If so, please let me get you some help."

He spoke rapidly, words tumbling out of his mouth: "I don't need help, and I'm not taking drugs, dammit, I just need someone else to see this, I need someone to see it so I know I'm not the only one, if you'd just — "

"There's nothing to see, hon. It's just a smelly old crumbling theater filled with rats."

He grabbed both her arms tightly. "Please wait."

"Johnny, you're hurting me."

He dropped his arms at his sides. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but if you'll stay just a little longer — "

"I've got to get back to work," she said. "I've been gone too long already." She stepped around him and started back the way they had come, one arm outstretched to make sure she didn't bump into anything in the dark.

"Please wait, Carol," he shouted.

She stopped and turned to him. "Come with me, Johnny. Okay? Come with me and we'll get you some — "

"I don't need help!"

"All right, then."

John watched her move along the side aisle, a dark figure in the dark. Her shoes crunched over the floor. The hinges of the metal door squealed as she pulled it open and for a moment, a column of sunlight poured into the theater. It grew narrower and finally disappeared as the door swung closed on its own behind her.

He was alone in the theater again. He sat on the pillow and stretched his legs out before him. His right foot knocked over a cup half-filled with cola and it splashed over the floor. But John was too upset to notice.

"Dammit," he muttered to himself. Carol had a big heart and an open mind, and she was the only person he could think of who would actually come into the theater with him. "Where are you?" he shouted into the darkness. He sat forward, leaned his elbows on his thighs and put his face in his palms. He felt on the verge of tears as he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

When he sat up again, the movie screen was bathed in a soft flickering glow. The rips and the graffiti were gone.

"It's starting," he whispered. Then he shouted, "Carol! Carol, come back! Hurry! Come back!" He stood and turned to the exit at the back of the theater. The door did not open. Carol was gone.

Carol stood on the sidewalk outside the theater and looked around, hoping to find a cop. Tears burned her eyes as she looked to her right, her left. She'd had no idea John had sunk so low.

She took her cell phone from her purse and called the police.

Figures began to take shape on the flickering screen as John watched. They were shadowy at first, blurry silhouettes that shifted back and forth, melted together, then pulled apart. They sharpened to crystal clarity and John recognized Clark Gable and Myrna Loy. Gable was in brilliant technicolor and wore the same suit he'd worn at the end of Gone With the Wind, while Myrna was bathed in gray. Suddenly, they were no longer on the white screen — they floated gently down to the floor until they stood directly in front of John.

More figures came into focus on the screen, only to ease slowly to the floor, like autumn leaves drifting down to the ground.

Marilyn Monroe in the white dress she wore in The Seven-Year Itch.

A silvery-gray Humphrey Bogart in his Casablanca hat and trench coat.

John Wayne in chaps and a leather vest.

Boris Karloff as the stiff, gray monster from Frankenstein.

Gregory Peck, looking dignified in a suit he'd worn in To Kill A Mockingbird.

Larry "Buster" Crabbe in his Flash Gordon costume.

William Powell from the Thin Man movies, martini in hand.

A shirtless John Garfield in boxing shorts, with his gloves tied together and dangling around his neck — Charlie Davis from Body and Soul.

Fred and Ginger.

Bela Lugosi in his cape.

W.C. Fields and Mae West.

Gene Tierney looking every bit as beautiful as she did in Laura.

Jimmy Stewart and Katharine Hepburn and Charlie Chaplin and the Three Stooges and Carol Lombard and Merle Oberon and Cary Grant — two and three at a time, they came off the screen until there was a crowd of them on the floor in front of the seats. Each of them shimmered with a pale, vaguely flickering glow, and the more of them that gathered, the lighter the theater became.

The light revealed the old movie house as it had looked when John was a boy — pristine and colorful, a magical palace of dreams. Each time it happened, he expected to see his father sitting in the seat next to him.

Their voices and laughter blended until the theater was alive with the sounds of people comfortably enjoying themselves, the sounds of a party. The only thing missing was music — but that came soon enough.

The big organ to the right of the screen, its pipes now restored to their former shine, was played by Lon Chaney in his Phantom of the Opera mask.

Rosalind Russell chatted with Clifton Webb in the same fast-talking, hardboiled way she'd talked in His Girl Friday.

William Powell handed out martinis and eventually made his way to John.

"You look like you could use a drink, my friend," Powell said.

John smiled as he stood and took the glass and said, "Thank you." He sipped the martini. It was very dry.

"That's better," Powell said. "Stand up and mingle, enjoy yourself, my boy. The night is young. Have you seen my better half?" He turned and looked through the crowd. "Oh, Mommy. Where did you go?" He wandered off to look for her.

John sipped his drink as he wandered slowly through the crowd. He walked past little Jackie Coogan, to whom a young, smiling Judy Garland was singing a song. W.C. Fields stood nearby with his drink and dubiously eyed the little boy.

"Who let that child in here?" Fields said out of the side of his mouth. "This is no place for children. Not as long as I'm here."

James Dean in a black leather jacket lit Natalie Woods' cigarette.

Off to one side, away from the crowd, Clark Gable and Carol Lombard kissed passionately.

Joe E. Lewis took a sip of his martini. After swallowing, he opened his large mouth wide and released his trademark holler, then said, "Who mixed these martoonis?"

"Why you, I oughtta — " Moe Howard poked his brother Curly in the eyes with two fingers and it made a poink sound.

Larry Fine tapped Moe on the shoulder from behind and said, "Hey, leave him alone."

Moe turned and poked him in the eyes, too, with another poink. "A wiseguy, huh? Spread out."

"Hey," Curly said. "How come we're the only ones without drinks?"

Moe said, "Because you can't hold your liquor, ignoramus." He pounded his fist down on Curly's shaved head with a loud clok!

"How can I hold it if nobody gives it to me?" Curly said.

"I'll give it to you," Moe said as he punched Curly in the belly with a boom.

Marilyn Monroe stepped in front of John and he stopped walking. He had seen her in the theater before, but they’d never stood so close. Her milky skin glowed and her hair was like spun gold, pillowy lips a deep red.

"Are you here all alone?" she said in her breathy voice.

"Uh, yes," John said, "I'm afraid so."

She smiled as she stepped to his side and hooked her arm through his. "Not anymore." They walked through the crowd together.

Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, both in black-and-white from The Fortune Cookie, argued good-naturedly with each other near Alan Ladd, who stood laughing with John Garfield.

Boris Karloff touched his martini glass to Cary Grant's in a toast as Fred and Ginger danced around them.

Technicolor munchkins from The Wizard of Oz were all over the place.

"Would you like to dance?" Marilyn asked.

"I'm not a very good dancer."

"Neither am I, if you want to know the truth," she said.

Humphrey Bogart, drink in hand and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, stood nearby and overheard them. He said, "The way I see it, sweetheart, you don't have to be a good dancer."

They passed Bela Lugosi, who smiled as Martha Raye said to him, "You scared me so bad, I had to sleep with a light on for a week."

Marilyn leaned so close, her lips almost touched John's ear, and whispered, "I have to go talk to Mr. Holden. You mingle and have fun, okay?"

"Sure," John said. He smiled as he watched her walk away. She joined William Holden, who stood alone smoking a cigarette, wearing pants but no shirt, as he had in Picnic.

Behind him, Paul Newman and Elizabeth Taylor talked to each other, both holding drinks, both in color.

“Cat’s jump off roofs and land uninjured,” Newman said. “Do it. Jump.”

Taylor tilted her head back and laughed. “Jump where? Into what?”

A grey Edward G. Robinson — Johnny Rocco in his white suite from Key Largo — stepped up to John. "Where are they keeping the liquor?" he asked.

"Talk to Mr. Powell," John said.

"Thanks." He touched the brim of his hat and went off to find William Powell.

John smelled cigar smoke and turned to find Groucho Marx behind him. Groucho looked him up and down and said, "Nice of you to dress up for the occasion. Are you wearing those clothes on a bet, or is the Depression on again?"

If only Carol had stayed a little longer. It disturbed John to know that she thought he was crazy.

The theater shimmered with their soft glow. Lon Chaney continued to play the organ and Fred and Ginger danced to the music, looking as if their feet were barely touching the floor. Lon Chaney, Jr. in his makeup from The Wolf Man, smiled as he watched them move gracefully over the floor.

"Hey, pilgrim," John Wayne said to John. "You look a little lost. Do you know what you're looking for?"

"Nothing in particular," John said. "Just wandering around."

Wayne cocked his head and winked before walking away.

Lana Turner rushed by and Groucho followed, walking in a crouch, cigar in hand. He stopped in front of John and called to her: "All right, then, go ahead and leave in a huff. And if that's too fast, leave in a minute and a huff." He turned to John and said, "She's crazy about me." He bobbed his eyebrows, then hurried after her.

"Top o’ the world, Ma!" James Cagney shouted from one of the holes that used to be an opera box. Everyone laughed and a few people applauded.

John was surrounded by them, and they made him feel giddy. They reminded him of Saturdays with his father, watching old movies and eating popcorn and Milk Duds. But they were life-sized now, not blown out of proportion on the big screen. They were real, tangible. He could smell their perfumes, their colognes, their cigarettes and cigars. He could smell the flowers in the lei that Elvis Presley wore around his neck from Blue Hawaii. They were all so beautiful that John felt tears burn in the back of his throat. They were the reason he had practically moved into the old theater. He could not get enough of them.

If only Carol had stayed for a few minutes longer.

Carol paced on the sidewalk as she waited for the police. A patrol car finally pulled up to the curb and two uniformed officers got out, a man with graying hair and a short, solidly-built woman. Carol went to them and said, "I'm the one who called you."

"I'm Officer Randall," the male cop said. He nodded to the woman, "This is Officer Connor. What's the problem?"

"It's a friend of mine. He's inside the theater. I … I think he's been living there."

"He's homeless?" Connor asked.

"I'm not sure," Carol said. "We used to work together at SilverScreen magazine a few years ago and we became good friends. We stayed in touch for a while after he left the magazine, but then, things went bad for him."

"What do you mean?" Randall said.

"It started when his sister committed suicide," she said. "She was mentally ill and Johnny was always coming to her rescue. Her death hit him hard." She bowed her head a moment and sniffled, trying to hold back her tears. "Then his little boy … he got sick. Leukemia. He died. Then his wife left him. A few months later, they were trying to get back together, to reconcile, but — " She shook her head and sighed. " — she died in a car accident. His whole life just seemed to fall apart. But I had no idea he was … this bad."

"Is he violent?" Randall said.

"Oh, no, he's harmless, so please, don't hurt him. He needs help. He's … he's wounded inside. Badly wounded."

"Is he armed?" Connor said.

"No, nothing like that," Carol said. "He just needs help."

"We'll see that he gets it, don't worry," Connor said. "How did he get in there?"

"This way," Carol said. She led them down the alley to the door. "In here."

"You stay out here," Officer Randall said as he took his flashlight from his belt.

Crying now, Carol said, "Please be gentle with him. Don’t hurt him."

"What's his name?" Randall said.

"Johnny. Um, John. John Bellows."

"Are you all right, old man?" the black-and-white Cary Grant said. "You look like you've lost your last friend."

"Well," John said, "things have been a little … rough."

"Chin up."

As Grant walked away, Ingrid Bergman approached him. She was a silvery gray and wore one of the dresses she'd worn in Notorious, a striped number. She held her martini in her right hand and a cigarette between the first two fingers of her left.

"You have very interesting eyes," she said softly. "Has anyone ever told you that before? That you have nice eyes?"

He said nothing for a moment, just stared at her, drank her in. Half his mouth curled up into a smile as a tear ran down his cheek. "My wife … she always told me I had nice eyes."

"She's a very lucky woman," Bergman said before walking away.

Katharine Hepburn stood nearby talking to Audrey Hepburn. They laughed together about something.

Jimmy Durante smiled at John, tilted his head, and said, "Ha-cha-cha-cha!"

Betty Grable hurried by, and Harpo Marx honked the horn attached to his belt as he ran after her with his mouth open in a joyous grin.

Someone behind him said, "Johnny?"

John turned and saw a figure with a flashlight coming up the side aisle. "Who's there?" John said.

"How would you like to come with me, Johnny?" the figure said. It came closer, until it was close enough for John to see the police uniform.

His eyes opened to their limit and his jaw became slack. "Duh-Dad? Daddy?"

The police officer slowly came closer, held out a hand. "Come on, it's not safe in here. It's time to go."

"Dad?" John breathed.

"Come with me," the police officer said.

Suddenly, the stars were all gone and the theater was dark, silent except for the gritty footsteps of the policeman. It did not matter, though. As much as he loved them all, loved being around them and talking to them and just looking at them, they were insignificant compared to his father.

"Daddy?" John said again, his mouth dry, voice hoarse. He stepped toward the figure in the dark.

"Come with me, now. It's time to go."

"Okay, Daddy," John said as he took his father's hand. "Okay."