Grief Street

script had come in—postmarked from the Times Square station, no return address—was on the floor next to Ruby’s shoes and socks. There was also an unsigned cover letter on pale red paper. “On the first level, this is a murder mystery. You like murder mysteries, right?”
    “The real ones are my business. Of the made-up kind, I don’t go for those dopey beach books.”
    “Oh, but there’s meat and potatoes with this story. Like I say, it’s political. It’s history, too. And it’s about ideals.” A tease of a smile played in Ruby’s face. “And some people, Irish, they’re going to find it personal. You—especially— have got to read this.”
    “Okay already.”
    “Anyway, I’d be playing this woman called Annie. She runs a saloon and a brothel out of a house on West Fortieth Street, around the turn of the century.”
    “Back then the street was mostly Irish.”
    “Nontraditional casting. My favorite.”
    “I thought you had a rule about your parts. No maids, no whores.”
    “Nobody’s invited me to be onstage in a whole lot of years, my dear. I can afford to make an exception.”
    I should explain about Ruby. She left her hometown of New Orleans as an eighteen-year-old kid under the impression that Broadway was the place where an African American actress who did not happen to sing or dance might have a chance, especially if she was pretty. Everybody has to learn the hard way. So Ruby wound up taking a survival job on Madison Avenue. She did more than survive. She parlayed an entry-level job in the advertising dodge into something, with a salary brisk enough to underwrite her dream of a New York theater where audiences could come to see African American actors who did not happen to sing or dance and who were not necessarily good-looking. At least the real estate appreciated.
    “Besides, this character is my kind of woman,” Ruby said. “I’m talking capital-W Woman.” She riffled the crisp page of her script. “Annie Meath’s her name. She mostly sits drinking at the parlor bar, tossing out sweet, subversive lines. When her girls aren’t working the beds upstairs, she'll hires them out as thugs for labor disputes—strictly on the union side. Annie is many things, but she’s no angel. One thing everybody calls her, though—the mother of Hell’s Kitchen.”
    “This somehow sounds familiar.”
    “It should, it’s street history. There really was a gang of strong-arm prostitutes. Annie’s Goons they were called. Guess what makes Annie Meath’s place history?”
    “I don’t like guessing. Tell me.”
    “This is one of my favorite scenes.” Ruby fingered through some pages until she found what she was looking for, the pertinent stage directions and dialogue. “It’s a blistering hot summer’s night, and outside of Annie’s brothel there’s a small riot going on. There’s a cop standing around watching. Annie Meath is sitting on her stoop observing the battle. First the cop shakes his head and says, ‘This place is hell itself.’ Then Annie says, ‘Hell’s a mild climate. This here is hell’s kitchen, no less.’ ”
    “I know that place,” I said. Which was unwise of me, since it only made Ruby more excited about the prospects of taking on the play. “What street again?”
    “West Fortieth.”
    “Sure—that decrepit brownstone between Ninth and Tenth. Next door there’s a shelter for battered women. The shelter’s run by an old teacher of mine from Holy Cross, Sister Roberta, one of the better ones as nuns go. Anyhow—as for the house next door that was run by another kind of woman, nobody ever marked it with a historical plaque or anything. But the old place is still there and standing, for those who care about neighborhood myths.”
    “This playwright cares.” Ruby straightened her legs and Put the script down. She picked up the cover letter and handed it to me. “Here, read this. Then like I asked before, tell me what you think.”
    The paper was a heavy bond, in contrast to the onionskin typescript. The handwritten message was brief and cryptic. Large, carefully wrought letters in black fountain pen ink had been applied to stationery the color of blanched cherries. The ink was fuzzy in most spots, as if the author had written on wet paper. It read:

Dearest Ms. Flagg:
I’ve taken the liberty of entrusting to you the enclosed script of Grief Street. As it is a life’s work,
I shan’t offer it as doorstop matter for some cretin- | ous producer’s