Blood Will Have Blood

By Thomas H. Carry

A darkly humorous and edgy crime novel set in New York City in the late ‘80s, Blood Will Have Blood will appeal to fans of Elmore Leonard, the Coen Brothers, and Lawrence Block.

Seven years in New York, and that big break has yet to materialize for struggling actor and inveterate pothead Scott Russo. Performing in terrible, barely attended Off-Off Broadway productions, hopping from one soul-crushing job to the next, Scott slacks away in a pot-fueled haze and contemplates throwing in the towel on his anemic career. The only thing that keeps him going is the humiliation of returning home to Baltimore. That and his current theatrical gig: an idiotically bad production of Macbeth.

Broke and out of a job, Scott jumps at his friend’s offer to work for a pot delivery service, only to get caught in a web of brutal Irish gangsters, a charismatic psychopath, ruthless prosecutors, and clueless actors. As his theatrical and criminal worlds collide in mayhem, murder, and betrayal, Scott finds himself morphing into a bumbling and blood-stained Macbeth, on stage and off.

If he can just make it to opening night…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bad Alley Books
• Release date: Jan 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662905995

Thomas H. Carry

Thomas H. Carry holds a doctorate in literature and has worked as a professional actor, dancer, business consultant, bouncer, and pet whisperer. A recovering academic, Carry has also held positions at various colleges and universities. He currently lives in Manhattan with his wife. This is his first novel.

Book preview

idiot.

July 1987

Chapter One

And that’s why De Niro is superior to Pacino. Can you pass the bong?

I passed the bong to Freddie and reached for the soft pack of Marlboro Lights on the secondhand coffee table, pushing aside the plastic container of leftover food from the Korean deli’s buffet. I wondered which item would give me the runs later. Probably the glazed chicken. While I lighted my smoke, Freddie took a deep hit off of the bong, the gurgling water sounding like obscene plumbing.

Freddie was the delivery guy from the pot phone-order service I’d used for the past few years, after giving up on sketchy purchases in Central Park, and over time he’d become a decent friend. Like me, he was an actor. I should probably put that in quotes, since I don’t know the last time he’d actually acted in anything, though he talked about the craft incessantly. Freddie had a set routine: he would collect the cash payment and hand over the pot I’d selected from the brochure menu (my usual choice, Hawaiian Dream), then plop down in a chair and smoke with me. In his slow drawl, his squinty eyes peering up to the ceiling through thick, round, John Lennon glasses, he would pontificate on various actors. He was on his favorite tangent: the superiority of De Niro’s craft to Pacino’s.

"I’m talking strictly film here, okay? Not stage. I mean, if you saw De Niro at the Public in Cuba and His Teddy Bear, then you see the limits. He had trouble filling the space. That Karate Kid dude was pretty good, I have to admit. I didn’t see Pacino in American Buffalo, so I cannot comment."

Ralph Macchio? I said incredulously.

Yes, the kid had heart. He’s green—not a lot of training, that was clear—but honest. An honest performance. He was doing, not acting. Doing. He gurgled another hit of my pot.

Christ, save me. Here he goes again with the whole doing thing. Acting is doing. If he fucking quotes Lee Strasberg, I’m going to toss him. I wasn’t really, of course; I didn’t have it in me. I was content to sit, occasionally nod, and let him drone on. It was actually kind of peaceful after the bad day I’d had. Rude and rushed diners during my lunch shift as a new waiter-in-training at a trendy restaurant. Pinstriped young finance guys with gelled hair enjoying the power dynamic of bossing me around, no doubt working off the humiliation of having their manhood berated by a coked-up manager who thought he was Gordon Gecko.

After the shift, a quick shower in my Hell’s Kitchen studio apartment, and off to the subway and downtown to the East Village to rehearse in a dark, smoke-filled black box ruled by Allison Rucker, an obese alcoholic director with a particular vision for reframing the classics. This time it was Macbeth set in Capone’s Chicago. (She was inspired by The Untouchables movie.) Oh, I’m sorry: the Scottish Play. I let the title slip during rehearsal and she practically shit her khakis. After another lecture on the curse of the play’s name, I was demoted to the role of Second Murderer. This wasn’t my first rodeo with her. I’d previously performed in her punk-rock Euripides (yes, she’d seen Sid and Nancy). It took several weeks for my hair to grow in after that Mohawk.

Now, I was happily stoned. Or stoned, at least. Comfortably numb, to borrow from Pink Floyd. I looked at Freddie with blurred detachment. He was going for a look, but I couldn’t quite place it. The pleated, tapered pants, purple leather shoes, and spiked, thinning hair. He looked like an older, cartoon version of a rocker I couldn’t quite recall. At any rate, he appeared exactly as he was: a forty-year-old pot delivery guy who had lost himself in the drowning waters of New York theater, one of the emptied human shells inflating themselves with false delusions of pending breakthroughs, the nobility of the uncompromising artist suffering for art, and the pretense that attitude and posture could substitute for craft.

Or, you know, doing.

He was a manifestation of all of my fears. Seven years in New York, and what did I have to show for it? Restaurant work and telemarketing jobs, a crappy studio walk-up with a poorly-constructed loft bed and cockroach roommates, and roles in terrible, barely-attended Off-Off Broadway showcases in downtown buildings that should probably be condemned. And the occasional street tax: the post-rehearsal muggings in bad neighborhoods that had become practically transactional. Four years after acting school, and somehow that movie contract hadn’t materialized. Movies—screw that, I couldn’t even land a decent Shakespeare festival. At this rate, I was a future Freddie. It could happen; the last seven years disappeared quickly, so if I kept this up for another decade, I’d be closing in on his current age. Hell, Freddie was probably better off than me; his job seemed pretty lax. I was burdened with the fear that I’d throw in the towel and, humiliated by failure, go back home to Baltimore. Baltimore, for God’s sake!

My phone rang and I walked over to the wall and picked up.

Hello?

Scott? Mary’s voice was plaintive and stuttering. I could tell she’d been crying. Why didn’t I let it go to the answering machine? Stupid.

I need to see you. Can I come over? she said. I held my hand over the receiver and moaned. Freddie looked up.

I don’t think that’s a good idea. We talked about this. We can’t keep doing this over and over.

But I’ve had some terrible news, tragic news. I need you; I can’t handle this alone. Please. She sniffled. Paused. Another sniffle for dramatic effect.

What happened? I asked.

Not on the phone. I can’t. I’ll break down if I say it, and I simply can’t do that here. I can’t. Please, Scott.

I hesitated. I didn’t know what to say.

Hello? Are you there?

Yes. I waited a bit longer and finally sighed, my resolve shot. Okay … But come now. I’m tired and I had a fucked-up day.

Thank you, Scott! I’ll be there in a few. I’m actually calling from the phone at the corner. Of course she was. She knew I’d buckle. I’m that predictable. What a sap. Once again, I’d let her work me. She hung up before I could reply.

Typhoid Mary? Freddie said. I cringed. He shook his head like a disappointed teacher. Scott, Scott, Scott. What did I tell you? You have to shut it down, man. She’s playing you again!

Yeah, whatever, I said, annoyed at being called out. Well, she’s coming now, so you have to clear out. Sorry.

What’s the fabricated crisis this time?

Okay, I really don’t want to get into it, I said. Mary was my ex-girlfriend. I’d broken it off several weeks ago, sort of, after I found out she’d been sleeping with her current acting teacher. We’d met in acting school and been together on and off since then. The pattern was always the same: we’d have a passionate connection that would eventually dissipate when we got into a routine, and she’d become smitten with someone else, usually a man with authority and standing who gave her revelatory insight: a new acting teacher, a director, a more accomplished actor. They’d become lovers and she’d try to keep me warm as a backup plan, I’d break it off in humiliation, and one of her personal crises would reunite us because, as she would inevitably realize, I’m the only stable and true person in her life. I’d eventually take her back. Rinse. Repeat.

Well, to be continued, my friend, Freddie said as he stretched out of the chair and picked up his messenger bag. I’m running late! Freddie was always running late, but his customers expected this. His tardiness came with the service, like his musing on actors. As he made for the door, the intercom buzzed loudly. I hit the button and heard the crank of the outer door unlocking through the intercom’s static. Great, she’ll run into Freddie and know that I’m stoned. She liked me that way: passive and easily manipulated. Who was I kidding? I was more often high than not.

Stay strong! Freddie saluted me and tromped down the stairs. I stood in the doorway. Juanita, my friendly neighbor below, was walking the hall back and forth sporting a long, sequined boa. A tall and very muscular Puerto Rican transvestite, Juanita would hold a solitary runway fashion show in the hallway late into the evening, until her drunken and ashamed older brother climbed the stairs and arguments ensued, followed by the inevitable slap, the tears, the apologies. The nightly routine was as predictably reliable as Johnny Carson. Juanita gave me a royal wave and I waved back. I heard Freddie and Mary exchanging cold hellos as they passed each other. Then she appeared on the landing below, waited for Juanita to pass, and made her way to me. She had racoon eyes from her running mascara, but her boldly red lipstick looked newly applied. My heart jumped with excitement. She was an emotional wrecking crew, manipulative and narcissistic, needy and passionate. She was an exciting scene unfolding, a drug, intoxicating—I clung to a nonchalant façade, both of us knowing it was a weak sham that would dissolve on contact. Here I go again.

Scott! she cried as she walked in. She hugged me immediately, and just as quickly, our tongues were dancing in each other’s mouths and our clothes were attacked with urgency.

Oh, Scott. You’re the only true person in my life.

I cringed. We were in my loft bed, wet with sweat, Mary nestled in my arm with her head resting on my chest. I stared up at the ceiling, four feet above, and noticed an early-stage spider’s web in the corner. She reached over and flipped the tape in the cassette player on the loft bed’s shelf. She hit play and Michael Bolton crooned away. I hated his crappy music.

Is your neck okay? She reached for it and rubbed the back of my head.

It’s fine, don’t worry, I said. So, what happened? What’s the terrible news?

What? She yawned and curled back into me. After several moments of stillness, she said, I realized this evening, it hit me: I have no talent.

You just figured that out? I thought. The truth was, I never thought Mary was a good actor. It was surprising. All that charisma, passion, and spontaneity; a raw and exciting energy would be present in the early stages of a rehearsal, but she could never get past it. She couldn’t remember lines, she’d slip into a stiff, one-dimensional manner. And forget Shakespeare. She’d become pseudo British, and her face would mug comically. I saw her do Ophelia in an outdoor summer production of Hamlet. I’m pretty sure she didn’t understand much of what she was saying.

The familiar frustration rose in me. Once again, a non-emergency concocted to manipulate me. Or maybe it truly was a real one to her, and that struck me as even worse. Nonetheless, I played my expected role as the supportive and reliable man in her life.

Oh, come on. That’s nonsense and you know that deep down. It’s a process. Look at me. I haven’t felt like I’ve connected in a role since, well, since before coming to New York. It’s all there for you; you know that. I played with the curls of her blond, recently permed hair. It will come. You’ll find it. Just keep doing the work, like Dalton always told us.

John Dalton was the senior acting teacher at our school. Mary was one of his favorites. I’m pretty sure they’d had an affair. I’d seen the knowing, secretive glances, the blushing passes before and after class, the lingering hand on the nook of the back.

I just don’t know. Do you really think so? She didn’t wait for a reply, and I settled in for the inevitable monologue. "I just, I don’t know, don’t feel like I’m connecting, you know? Like, I don’t feel like I’m finding my truth. It’s just not coming forward, and I wonder if it ever has, if this has all been one big joke and I should just admit that I’ve been fooling myself. I mean, what am I doing here? What? I hate this city, I hate being here! It’s so harsh and dark, so angry and dirty. And the constant harassment. Do you know that Jenny was molested on the A train? Some guy just whipped it out and whacked off on her. Right on her! He could have AIDS!

I don’t know. I feel like it’s always knocking me off center. All I do is work, and take class, and audition. And I’m just lost. No one sees me. I’m invisible here. The Invisible Woman. Except to the creeps on the street. Mary, from a lily-white town in Ohio, never got past the perception of New York as portrayed in urban dystopic films like Death Wish. Menacing predators were everywhere, and often with a black or brown face. I couldn’t convince her of the real menace: Yuppies. They scared the shit out of me.

Mary, I get it. It’s hard. I’m filled with doubt every day. But remember the pact we made. To see it through, to get past the trials and the struggle. You’re not lost, not really. It’s all part of the path. I didn’t believe a word of this, but so what.

Yeah. To hell with it. She leaned up on her elbow. You’re right. I know that deep down. It’s just so, so hard, you know? She teared up. Thank God for you, Scott. You always make me feel better. You just give me hope. She snuggled in more deeply, and I continued to stroke her hair and look at the ceiling, knowing she would soon doze off and that in the morning she would move on again. In the distance, I heard Juanita’s newly-arrived and drunken brother begin his litany of insults. I settled in and waited for the show to begin. This is my life.

At least it wasn’t Baltimore.

Chapter Two

Don’t speak the lines! Allison Rucker said in a voice graveled by the several packs of unfiltered Camels she consumed daily. I sat in the back of the gloomy, black-box theater and chain-smoked with First Murderer while Rucker coached Lady Macbeth on one of her monologues, trying to push her to a seminal breakthrough. We always sat far to the back so we could whisper heckles to each other to relieve the tension of rehearsal. Actors’ gallows humor. Cast members were scattered throughout, the sycophants in the front row lest they miss a drop of acting wisdom from the maestro. Lady Macbeth, straining and clenching, was really putting effort into it, but mostly she looked like she was trying to squeeze out a deuce.

Feel your own words, John, aka First Murderer, whispered to me.

Feel your own words! Rucker shouted to Lady Macbeth. I covered my mouth to suppress laughter. Rucker’s directorial approach was to have the actors ignore Shakespeare’s lines. Instead, we would improvise within the frames of the scene, using our own, contemporary words to convey the essence of the conflict: to feel our own words. This approach was not a one-off; it was the operating procedure for every rehearsal until a few days before opening, when actors would suddenly and magically apply the play’s actual script. Shakespeare’s dialogue would be infused with the organic urgency of authentic emotions, like a natural overlay on a living animal.

Except that’s never what happened. Instead, the actors would garble unfamiliar iambic phrases that were as hard to chew as plastic straws. During performance, some would simply fall back into the exercise and improvise with unpoetic, colloquial dialogue. This would confuse the few audience members in attendance, especially when Rucker, in between sips of scotch from her flask, would shout from the back of the house: Yes! Beautiful! Feel your own words!

Unsex me now! shouted Lady Macbeth through a clenched throat.

No! Rucker shouted in her face. Not the actual lines!

Lady Macbeth’s lips quivered, and the inevitable welling of the eyes ensued. Her slight frame tremored. John looked over at me, shaking his head.

Right on the mark, he said, tapping his wristwatch. Ten minutes in. I reached in my jeans pocket and picked out a crumbled five-dollar bill. Instead of placing it in his outstretched hand, I compressed it into a ball and tossed it at him. It bounced off his face, and he coughed out a deep laugh.

Quiet, you two! yelled Rucker as she hugged Lady Macbeth, who was silently weeping with her face pressed into Rucker’s ubiquitously stained blue fleece sweater, worn year-round and accessorized with an Isadora Duncan scarf. She glared at us, her rheumatic eyes magnified by her goggle-like glasses. She looked like a rotund World War I pilot. John and I immediately reverted to poker faces and stared ahead. John reached over and pinched my side.

Ow! I yell.

What did I say? What did I just say? Rucker said, her face blotchy red with anger.

Sorry, I responded, rubbing my side. Muscle cramp. She gave me a simmering look. I shivered a little. I was actually a bit afraid of her.