Seven

“Thirty minutes.”

“Thank you, thirty.”

Surely an advantage of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men could be observed in their well-established lines and methods of communication. Stagecraft, as they saw it, shared a number of the fundamental characteristics and imperatives of tradecraft. A production required tightly coordinated efforts from experts in a range of fields. It demanded creativity, delegation, and trust. From first-read to opening night, anything short of a well-oiled machine could cascade into disaster. And even then, as a great fussbudget once said, “Fifty things will go wrong.” It was up to the actors and crew to improvise and make adjustments, and do so seamlessly enough that the audience failed to notice. At Brown, the methodology was simple: give the actors a strong toolkit and let them choose how it might be used. Peters especially avoided detailed blocking. He preferred to offer students methods for establishing clarity in movement, and let the blocking happen organically.

It occurred to Alison that this too was the modus operandi behind the tradecraft of The Lord Chamberlain’s Men. Assets learned simple tenets in training, but had agency in how they might apply them in the field. She considered this congruence as she sat patiently with Paige under the blue-gelled worklight of the Leeds Hall lighting booth, going over the logistics of the joint operation that lay ahead that evening. Paige sat too, but not patiently. She squirmed and fidgeted with the toggles of her coat, following the lines of the map nervously with her finger as they ran over possible complications.

“Can you go over the five tenets again?”

“Paige, you know the tenets.”

“I know, but it calms me down to hear you say them.”

“Fine,” Alison surrendered. “I suppose it can’t hurt to keep the basics on the front page, especially considering the complexity of our op tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“I got you, pumpkin. One. Focus. Every detail counts.”

“Right,” Paige said, recalling the simple, concise prose. “Follow the patterns, watch for deviations. No coincidences.”

“Good. Two. Clear the cobwebs.”

“Try to quell the fog of emotions. Letting them take root can breed mistakes.”

Alison nodded. “Three. Find the words. You can talk your way out of a bad situation more easily than you can fight your way out.”

Paige smiled. “We can agree to disagree on that one.”

“Four. Relinquish control. You can’t control all the factors in every situation. The sooner you know this, the sooner you can adapt.”

“But the gods will be caught looking if Alison Ashe doesn’t try.” Paige was already in a better mood.

Alison gave a friendly scowl. “Okay, dumpling. What’s the last one?”

Paige raised an index finger. “Find absolution. If you can empathize with your enemy, you can think like your enemy.”

“Twenty minutes,” Teddy Dalton’s calm, patient voice sang through the coms.

“Thank you, twenty,” repeated the chorus of Lord Chamberlain’s Men, stationed at various positions scattered throughout Footman territory.

Weeks of meticulous preparation prefaced this evening’s enterprise. The business of purposefully leaking an intricate operation without divulging true intent was a delicate game, and the Footmen were careful and deliberate in their means and methods. Alison’s phone had already been compromised by Elephant operatives, an oversight from a previous operation that she would come to cleverly leverage into an advantage. It would serve as the seed, through which she and her allies could pick and choose what intelligence would be exposed, and when. A series of carefully-timed communications painted a clear picture of this evening’s sortie, right up to the point of the switch, when all of the Lord Chamberlain’s mobiles would be transferred to two active operatives, who would carry out a Dolly Dagger on Sigma House while the rest circled back to seal the trap on any encroaching Elephants. Cavalry assets had agreed to take postings in the vicinity, and a single night’s armistice was agreed upon between themselves and the Footmen, in order that they might optimize the damage potential against a common enemy.

In order to ensure smooth coordination between factions, Operative Reed Baker was patched in, for this evening only, to Lord Chamberlain’s open com channel.

“This is Operative Baker, just checking in. How’s everything going on your end?”

“I’m sorry,” Paige exclaimed, excitable as ever. “We don’t know an Operative Baker. Do you have a call sign that might help us identify you?”

A sigh could be heard on the line, followed by a sizable pause. “Do I have to?”

“Sorry stranger. Rules are rules.” Paige was grinning wildly.

Another sigh, another pause. “This is Strawberry Pompadour. Do you copy?”

“That’s a ten-four, Pompadour. How are things looking on Ice Cream Mountain?”

Alison gave Paige a little smack in the ribs and whispered “Jesus, babe. You’re gonna break him.”

“All assets are in position. Our operator has found a strong vantage point at Granoff. He’s running the show from there. I’ll serve as liaison on our end. I take it you two will do the same?”

“That’s right,” Alison spoke up. “Have you spotted any movement?”

Reed cleared his throat. “We’re seeing a few telltale signs of reconnaissance on the Sharpe-Green side of the territory. You might want to send an asset to make a sweep down Olive. Make sure they get the message that it’s on.”

“What do you think, Butler?”

Ed Butler’s deep voice was easily distinguishable above the crowd. “That’s near my position. And I see no harm in it. I’ll make the sweep.”

“Boffo,” said Paige, a smile in her voice. “Thanks for the sit-rep, shortcake. Do keep us posted if anything changes.”

“Copy that.”

At the ten minute mark– “Thank you, ten”– Alison and Paige packed their effects, donned their coats, fastened various buttons, and pulled tightly on backpack straps. Paige wore a drab green fishtail parka with a fur-lined hood, and ran the lines of her coms and phone from its interior pocket. Alison never wore a coat that wasn’t grey. Tonight, she had equipped a canvas military jacket, lined with a hoodie three shades darker. Her white earbud cord draped in front of her cable-knit sweater before twisting around to her back pocket. While the Elephants had recently upgraded to a practically invisible wireless system, The Lord Chamberlain’s Men preferred tried-and-true headphones, cables and all. Upon request, Andy McElroy had outfitted Alison and Paige with quarter-inch splitters, enabling them to use their coms and listen to music simultaneously. Although they thanked him profusely, he maintained that the credit belonged to the nice man at Radio Shack.

At five minutes– “Thank you, five”– Alison undid the laces of her shoes and re-laced them tightly, crouching in what she felt was a cool pose as she worked.

“Aly, whatcha doing?” asked Paige, confusion pressing gently at her left eyebrow.

“It’s for the montage.”

“Montage?”

“Yeah– in my head. Don’t question my methods!”

“Places,” crooned Teddy Dalton once more through the coms.

“Thank you, places.”

***

Six theatre majors exited a small rehearsal hall on the north face of Sharpe House, still buzzing after a clamorous run-through of Words, Words, Words by David Ives. They laughed with great gusto, quoting lines from the show as they turned south on Brown towards Waterman. They were headed to Sigma House for a party. Although theatre majors typically kept their distance from fraternities, Greek Life at Brown was more reserved than at other universities, making cross-pollination more feasible. This party in particular had more draws than turn-offs. It was located in Sigma’s beautifully lit garden, grilled meats were promised in abundance, and proceeds went to childhood cancer research. One of the students at the head of the pack carried a small flyer which read “Partake in many meats, cancer we’ll defeat.”

If ever an olive branch existed between the sentiments of fraternities and theatre majors, it was unequivocally rooted in puns.

As the rowdy gang approached Lippitt House, one of the students stopped, garnering the attention of his companions. “Does anyone wanna go back to the dorms and drop off their bags?”

A few takers voiced their approval. A small-framed girl with bright features and a green parka asserted that she’d rather press on. Her taller friend in grey did the same. Hugs were exchanged, and the party broke up there, heading in opposite directions.

The conversation took on a quieter, more personal tone as Alison and Paige strolled east on Waterman Street, whose aged, opalescent cobblestones were illuminated by moonlight and soft yellow lamps.

Alison spoke first. “What did you end up doing for your Hamlet paper?”

The question brought a twinge of Machiavellian delight to Paige’s expression. “Oh, I– um. I argued that Hamlet was a work of feminist literature.”

“You what? Do you really believe that?”

“No! Not even a little bit. Not even a smidge. There are no smidges of feminism in Hamlet.”

Alison gave a look of incredulity, a smile embedded beneath. “Then what did you–” She left the question unfinished.

“I just kind of riffed. Blah, blah, Lady Gertrude, matriarch. Blah, blah, Ophelia, death as an escape from the dominant narrative. The angle wasn’t the argument itself.”

“What was it, then?”

Paige gave that impish look again. “It was mostly just a bunch of rhetorical traps that Peters wouldn’t want to engage with. It was the essay equivalent of ‘Does this dress make me look fat?’”

“Spicy! So, what did you get?”

“An A minus.”

“Should have been a C minus. To mirror our seventy cents on the dollar.”

Paige laughed. “How poor are they that have not patience? What wound did ever heal but by degrees?”

Alison Ashe put her arm around Paige’s shoulder as the garden lights of Sigma House appeared in the distance. The coms were starting to light up. Status reports became more heightened. Movement was spotted, enemy operatives identified. The telltale heavy breathing and pounding footfalls of assets in play. Alison could see that the radio activity was doing a number on Paige’s demeanor.

“Let’s switch to a private channel,” she said after a tentative breath. “At this point, we’ve gotta trust that our boys can do their jobs. Besides, we’ve got our own work to do, too. You wanna sync our playlists? You got the one I sent you?” Paige nodded the affirmative. “Okay. At Night in Dreams, by White Denim, in three, two–”

The wild, euphoric guitar riff and loose, funky drums imbued both operatives with confident smirks and rhythmic footfalls. They exchanged a dry look in the pale light before bursting into beautiful, sardonic laughter. Alison had never felt more at home than she did in that moment, wrapped cozily in the warm blanket of that riotous laugh. Paige’s unabashed snort sealed the deal. Whatever happened that night didn’t matter. This was a lifelong friendship. And nothing could take that from her. By the chorus, they were bleeding self-assurance like Tom Cruise on stilts.

The red was blood of humanity tempers the quiet
And all the time they spent
And let ’em chew another end again and again

At night in dreams of a thousand moons and clear blue rain
Sometimes it seems that if we could build a love to free us from pain
I know you think that it’s easy to change but it’s a symptom of age

The front entrance to Sigma Alpha Epsilon was dark. Lighted signs pointed the way around black pike fencing to the rear gate. The massive garden looked to Alison to be emblazoned with otherworldly magic: a thousand will o’ wisps dancing across its well-groomed grounds. The frat boys went overboard with the lights. String lights ran the gauntlet from the upper-balcony down to the far fences below. Box lanterns floated about the perimeter, and hundreds of drop lights fell from the ancient weeping willows. The party was already packed, and newcomers continued to trickle in from all directions, a pilgrimage to the city of lights.

As advertised, it was also the city of meats. Three great grills were elevated on a high central platform, manned by three mighty grillmasters. These exalted paragons operated their altars with expert focus, shirtless but for their bonny golden aprons, each adorned with the Sigma House Seal. Perhaps to further their ascent to godhood, they wore soft laurels in their hair. As pilgrims wandered toward the altar, they were blessed with the spoils wrought from hoof and feather. Bless their freshly-waxed chests and their humble hearts beneath, they’d done it. For there were three kinds of meat.

“What now?” asked Paige, still enchanted by the gratuitous decor.

“Now, we work the party, Moneypenny,” replied Alison. She had been saving that one.

They made their way to the bar, where a flaxen beefcake mixed them each a cocktail of their choosing. Neither intended to get sloshed, but they deemed that a drink in hand would ease their navigation of the complex social structures inherent in a frat party. For the sake of expert record-keeping it should be noted that Paige ordered an Old Fashioned and Alison selected a Gin Rickey. That is until they switched, for Alison’s drink was “gross,” and she had only ordered it because it sounded cool. Before the evening’s business could be conducted, it was also imperative that they each sampled all the meats. You know. For the kids.

“So, we’re keeping an eye out for these faces,” Alison said quietly to Paige, her phone open to the Sigma House Instagram page. “That’s Danny Ross in the rugby shirt. Senior. The two pledges: we think they’re Mike Rivers and Jesse Flores.”

Without removing her eyes from the phone, Paige replied “Well, the first one’s easy. He’s been on the balcony the whole time.”

Alison didn’t want to draw attention either. She turned her body a few degrees to the left and flipped off the display to her phone, trying to find the balcony in its reflection. Danny Ross stood still at its guardrail like a sentry, quietly scanning the party below. Hm, thought Alison. This is going to require some finesse.

Both assets shifted their positions again, subtly, but enough to keep their backs between their university pins and Danny’s sightlines. “Paige, pull up your Insta. We need to see if either of the pledges have girlfriends.” Mike did. Madison Miller. Jet black hair, emerald eyes, with a telltale headband to bring them out. Paige spotted her under one of the willows, hunched over a phone with a friend, just as she and Alison were. Maybe she was planning a hit job tonight as well.

“Madison? Madison Miller?” Alison asked timidly as they approached, still trying to keep their backs to the balcony. Madison looked up from her phone, no signs of recognition in her face. She widened her eyes to answer in the affirmative, but didn’t speak.

“We’re friends of Mike’s,” Paige took over. “from Lake High.” Golly, she was good. “I’m Stacy, and this is Becks. He was so excited to introduce you to us tonight, but we can’t find him.”

“Oh, snap! Yeah, they put him on waiter duty tonight. He’s been roaming around with little toothpick wieners. But, yeah, it’s so nice to meet you!”

“You too! We’ve heard so much about you! Hey, do you happen to know Jesse Flores?”

“Yeah, he’s staying in tonight. He got completely wasted last night. Probably still yakking up there.”

“Dang,” Alison chimed. “That sucks. Stacy, you wanna loop around and find Mike? We need to tell him that he found a keeper. Madison, it was so nice to meet you!”

“Gosh, you too!”

Alison and Paige made a serpentine path to a picnic table whose purview was blocked by the Altar of Meats. Hunched over a phone, they studied a campus map that Alison had pulled up from the Brown Uni app. A small breeze rolled in, causing the drop lights and box lanterns to sway. Shadows danced on the rosewood table before them as they recalculated the mission.

“What do you think?” Paige asked, after Alison had bit her lip in silence for a fair moment.

“I think we shouldn’t get too greedy. I don’t like Danny on the balcony. He hasn’t moved an inch since we first spotted him. There’s an easy mark in the house. Let’s finish him off and get out of here. Can you play operator out here while I make the play?”

“What? Aly, we’re not supposed to go into Sigma House. It’s a trap!”

“If it is a trap, they’re shorthanded tonight. And you can keep me informed on movements in and out of the house.” Paige twisted her face, but nodded reluctantly in agreement. “Besides,” Alison continued, “I like doing things I’m not supposed to.”