Murder on a Hot Tin Roof Read Online Free

lurching against me as the train whipped around a sudden curve in the tracks. “If we can catch an express at fourteenth street, we’ll make it just in time.”

    “In time for what?” I snapped. “You still haven’t told me what play we’re going to see. I hope it’s not The Pajama Game —but, knowing you, it probably is.” (I didn’t name this particular play just so I could make a snippy reference to Abby’s love of bedroom sports. No lie. I really didn’t want to see the popular musical. I’d read the reviews and thought it sounded silly.)

    Abby gave me a dirty look. “No, it’s not the goddamn PJ Game !” she said, shouting to be heard above the clamor of the train. “It’s a serious drama, not a comedy. It was written by Tennessee Williams—that sensitive Southern cat who wrote A Streetcar Named Desire —and it’s directed by Elia Kazan, whose latest movie, East of Eden , is—to use a moldy but apt expression—the cat’s pajamas. This play is cool, you dig? Everybody says it’s gonna win the Pulitzer.”

    I was shocked right out of my seamed (and uncomfortably damp) silk stockings. “You mean Cat on a Hot Tin Roof ?” I asked. “We’re going to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof ? That’s the hottest ticket in town! Kilgallen and Winchell can’t stop talking about it. They say the show’s booked up until next year. How the hell did you ever get seats? Did you sleep with the producer or something?”

    “Very funny,” Abby said with a sneer. “And you can get that snotty look off your face right now, because no, I did not sleep with the producer.”

    “Then who did you sleep with?” I bellowed, just as the train pulled to a stop at 14th Street. My question went unanswered as we hopped off the local and changed to an express.

    “Knock it off, Paige,” Abby yelled into my ear after the train had resumed its noisy hurtle through the tunnel, “I’m getting tired of your nasty insinuations about my sex life. They’re repetitious and boring.”

    She had me there. I was even beginning to bore myself. “Okay, okay!” I cried. “No more catty remarks. I promise! But, please, just tell me this: how in the name of all that’s holy did you ever get tickets to Cat on a Hot Tin Roof ?”

    “I don’t have them yet,” she admitted. “I have to pick them up at the theater. Somebody was supposed to leave them at the box office for me.”

    “Oh, no!” I groaned, feeling a big wave of doubt crash over me. “Who was supposed to do that? How do you know the tickets will be there? And what’ll we do if they’re not? Jesus, Abby! We could be making this miserable trip for nothing!” In an effort to curb my rising temper (and rising temper ature ), I gazed up at the Catalina swimsuit ad plastered above the seats across the aisle, imagining that I was the pretty redhead in the green-and-white strapless one-piece, bouncing in the surf instead of the subway.

    “Hang loose, Paige!” Abby sputtered. “Don’t sweat it. The tickets will be there. Take my word for it. Gray is a very good friend of mine. He won’t let me down.”

    “Gray?”

    “Yeah, Gray Gordon. He’s the understudy for Ben Gazzara, the actor who plays the male lead in the show. Gray called me up a few hours ago and said that Mr. Gazzara had collapsed from heat stroke this afternoon, and that he—Gray—was going to have to take over for him—Gazzara—and play the lead role in the performance tonight! Isn’t that fabulous? My good friend Gray is making his debut in the peachiest play on Broadway, and he wants me to be there. I’m so proud I could plotz! ”

    The train zipped into the 34th Street station and then out again, with barely a blink of awareness from me. My brain was focused on more pressing matters.

    “Gray who?” I asked again. “What did you say his last name was?”

    “It’s Gordon!” Abby shrieked, patience strained to the limit.

    “Gray Gordon,” I repeated, still doubtful about the