Farrell Covington and the Limits of Style by Paul Rudnick

Author:Paul Rudnick
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2023-06-06T00:00:00+00:00

18

The producers increased their investment in Enter Hamlet, to give the play a continued run. I was appreciative and embarrassed, as Farrell scolded, “The show isn’t just about you. It’s giving everyone jobs and health insurance. And if people read the ads, with the judiciously selected quotes, they’ll think the play’s a hit. So shut the fuck up.”

He was right, but my physical presence was no longer a factor, and a trip to Wichita was vital, for me to support Farrell, get out of town, and conduct a shamefully overdue snoop into Farrell’s geographical and family background. I’d be helming an archaeological expedition, delving into Farrell’s origins.

We flew out on a Covington Industries corporate jet, which wasn’t as glamorously luxe as it sounded. I was counting on staterooms and an open bar with a mini dance floor, but it was a standard jet with rows of grudgingly larger seats. It took off from a smaller airport, at a time of Farrell’s choosing. A stouthearted cadre of Covington executives was also onboard, in duplicate dark suits, grasping Farrell’s forearm and gruffly repeating, “We’re so sorry for your loss.”

“Do you know them?” I asked Farrell, once we were in the air.

“Mostly. But they worked for my father, so they’re a surveillance squad. Anything I did was summarized and transmitted. I’m never sure if they’re tyrannized or junior versions of my father, jousting for scraps.”

Another exec, his brow convincingly furrowed, stopped by and murmured, “Sorry for your loss. He was a great man.”

As the exec trotted past, Farrell said to me, “He was a very great man, as I mentioned last night WHILE YOU WERE FUCKING ME IN THAT SLING.”

Change was definitely on Farrell’s agenda. “So what’s the schedule?” I asked.

“The funeral’s this afternoon, which will be polite, but tomorrow’s the family sit-down, with lawyers, which will be a cannibal feast. I’d like you to be there—is that okay?”

“Of course, whatever you need. Have you heard anything else?”

“Not yet. I’m in this fugue state. I could be repressing everything, and I’ll sob over the casket, or reach inside and perch him on my knee as a ventriloquist’s dummy—‘Hi, everybody! I’m Harwell Covington, who wants my money?’ ”

“Farrell!”

“What?”

“I don’t know, I mean, you’re in a very weird place, so maybe you shouldn’t make any quick decisions.”

“We’ll see.”

He fell asleep on my shoulder. We hadn’t gotten much rest, and I was tempted to lean into the aisle and tell the execs, “Long night, watching people getting peed on. We’ve all been there.”

Sally met us at the Wichita airport. I hadn’t seen her since that day in Boston, before her wedding, but she was unchanged, with an asterisk: she was visibly richer.

Her simple navy dress was of a weightier shantung, her spectator pumps were kidskin, and her heirloom pearls had put forth a second strand.

“Hello, Broadway playwright,” she said, as we embraced.

“Hello, Wichita homemaker,” I replied.

“Have you been taking care of our boy?” she asked.

“He has,” said Farrell. “What do we know?”

Sally drove us in her navy-blue Mercedes.

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