Elsinore by Jerome Charyn

Elsinore.”
    â€œNot unless Howard had other old companions who went berserk. It was much too grand. Every patient with her own butler. Elsinore must be buried under the snow by now. But who told you about this daughter I never had? Not Howard. It must have been your librarian, Tosh.”
    â€œTosh doesn’t lie,” Holden said.
    â€œThen he lives in too many libraries.… Thank you, Mr. Holden, but I have work to do.”
    â€œHow can I get a ticket to one of your performances?”
    â€œWe never perform in public. I’m opposed to audiences who come in off the street. Whatever we do is by invitation only. And I’m afraid you’re not right for our guest list. Good-bye, Frog.”
    â€œI’m not so fond of good-byes.”
    â€œThen I’ll have to ask my people to throw you out.”
    â€œI still say you have a daughter. No one but little Judith could have told you who I am.”
    Six or seven mummers appeared from behind a door, like waltzing skeletons. Frog tried to pull at their masks, hoping he’d uncover little Judith or Dr. Herbert Garden. But he still couldn’t understand how the Manhattan Mimes had captured Fay and put her in their own Elsinore at College Point. And while he dreamt about that, the mummers seized Holden and tossed him down two flights of stairs. He couldn’t even get a single mask in his hands. He arrived on the street with a twisted shoulder. He heard a door click. The mummers had locked him out of their loft.
    He went straight to the Phipps Foundation.
    Gloria Vanderwelle greeted him outside Phippsy’s office. Frog began to doubt himself. He couldn’t imagine that girl with the bow in her hair as one of the Mimes. But she had to be Mrs. Church’s daughter. Little Judith.
    â€œMr. Phipps is waiting for you,” she said.
    â€œHow did he know I was coming?” Frog asked, looking into her eyes.
    â€œHe’s psychic about his employees.”
    Holden didn’t believe in psychics. Phippsy must have had a secret route to the Manhattan Mimes.
    â€œHe’s upstairs in the Supper Club,” she said. “Having his tea.”
    Frog rode up to Phipps’ crazy Manhattan, that enormous bowl of metal and glass where the conqueror liked to eat by himself. Phipps sat far from the windows, at a modest table for two. He was nibbling on a soda cracker. Frog had to think like a president. The overhead on that cracker must have been half a million.
    â€œHello, Sid. Should we move to a bigger table?”
    â€œNo. This one is fine.”
    Frog sat down with the old man.
    â€œWould you like a breakfast steak?”
    â€œIt’s almost dinnertime,” Holden said.
    â€œSo what? I keep the hours in this establishment. I’m Father Time.”
    â€œI’ll have a soft-boiled egg, an orange, and a bit of toast.”
    Holden didn’t have to bark his order. The egg appeared with the orange and a piece of rye toast. Five waiters hovered over him, one to open the egg, one to slice the orange, one to bother about salt and pepper, one to supervise the supervisor.
    â€œDamn you,” Phipps shouted, “will you let the boy suck his egg in peace?” And the waiters disappeared. Phipps was silent while Holden devoured the egg.
    â€œHow’s the grub?”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œWe have to get back on the road. It’s Europe this time, Sid.”
    â€œMore funny paper?”
    â€œAh, you’ve been reading my mind.”
    â€œBut the other swag we collected was good as gold.”
    â€œWho told you?”
    â€œI swiped one bill and had it checked.”
    â€œSo I make you president and you become a bloody thief.”
    Holden returned the thousand-dollar bill. The old man tore it to bits. “I could give you to Paul Abruzzi. He’d love to get his hands on the boy who romanced his daughter-in-law.”
    â€œI’m not a boy,” Holden said. “And I didn’t