CHUCK ZITO

After a disastrous stint as stage manager at a Catholic college, Nicky D’Amico moves back to New York to get his life in order. The good Company’s all-male production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream is a little unorthodox, but he’s thrilled about working with some of his old college friends.

This midwinter production of Dream soon becomes a nightmare when one of the actors is found dead behind the theater. It’s clear that the murderer is someone with the production—one of them!

The show must go on, but with someone hiding liquor bottles all over the set, more than one diva with an untrustworthy entourage, and two cute guys vying for his affections, Nicky has his hands full. Everyone is a suspect, and Nicky must figure out who the killer is—before it’s curtains for another cast member.

"The neighbor, Maria Cepedes, also saw ..."

"... the face of ..."

"... John the Baptist ..."

"... in the recently purchased chunk of ..."

"... chunk of bleu cheese."

"Give the words space," the director coached the actors.

The first actor, the one who'd begun the exercise, stretched his neck from side to side and then raised and lowered his shoulders. The other looked at his watch.

"Chunk of bleu cheese?'

"Mrs. Hagida is a member of ..."

"... Mary, Queen of the ..."

"Attitude," the director coached.

"... Universe Catholic Church in ..."

"... Kew Gardens, Queens."

"My cheese is very ..."

".. . ordinary ..."

"See the cheese, guys. Share the cheese."

"said Mrs. Cepedes."

"It makes me ..."

"sad. I never see ..."

"... saints."

"Give and take," the director said.

"Church officials would not ..."

"... comment ..."

"... on the sighting other than to say ..."

"Color the words." The director spoke quietly as the actors continued.

"... that ..."

"... they were studying the event."

"Share."

Alex Isola, the actor with the stiff neck, tapped his foot rapidly on the stage floor. He picked up the thread of the news article. "Mrs. Hagida charges one dollar per viewing ..."

"You know, she could have got a lot more if she'd been smart enough to see Christ himself," his partner interrupted, speaking to the theater house as if it were filled with an opening-night audience.

"Stick to the words, Herb," Marcus patiently urged.

"Of course." Herb sighed. "The text. The holy text."

Alex pushed away from the folding table center stage. "What is the point of doing this with him?"

"The point of the exercise, Alex—," Marcus Bradshaw started to explain.

"Thank you, I know the point of the exercise. I was in class with you when you learned it. But what is the point of doing it with him?" The exercise was over.

"Doing it with me? With me? As if I would do it with someone like you." He left Alex and Marcus center, crossing downstage to ask me, "How did you do it, Nicky? How did you manage day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, decade after decade with these people?"

"It was only four years, Herb," I said.

Marcus looked a bit offended. "That's not exactly a positive response."

Midnight Ink grants permission to use this excerpt as originally printed in: A Habit For Death, Midnight Ink, 2143 Wooddale Dr, St Paul, MN 55125