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Martin hurries off. swigs a shot and then goes in search of a dust cloth. On the four-foot screen the Devil is singing his big number, and everyone in the living room is begging Harvey to do it, too. He starts to mouth it while polishing an ashtray, but the picture cuts out. "They cut my scene!" he yelps, and then suddenly remembers he needs to go serve more barbecued beef.
"Harvey's always been a hyper kind of guy," says Too Tall, "but now you can't talk to him for more than three minutes before he's moving on."
Now Martin is outside, walking his sister, Mary, to her car, shocking her by kissing her for the first time since she can't remember when, happy that she came early because that meant there was one person there that he knew loved him. And now he's back in the house, disappearing behind curtains into the kitchen. He keeps moving that way until 5 a.m., when the last guests leave.
"You stand still, somebody might get close to you," he says. "I don't stand still much anymore."
"Ten minutes!" bellows the stage manager at Granny's. "Ten!"
"This is it," says Harvey Martin. "Laaaast time. Last Applegate. Damn! Kinda sad."
He walks across the wooden floor backstage, making the planks groan like the deck of an old ship. He buries two Michelobs under the ice of the theater's salad bar, for later; this play is too important to him to guzzle them now.
"Great party the other night," someone shouts at Martin. "They'll be talking about it for a long time."
"Gooood," booms Martin.
In his dressing room he ties a red scarf around his neck and puts on a pair of glasses and a red hat for his last performance of the month-long run. "Applegate is here!" he announces, rubbing his hands. "It's amazing. I put these things on and poof, I feel like I'm the Devil."