B00AZRHQKA EBOK (23 page)

“A good word? I’ll put in a knife, you jerk! When did all this happen?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday! And you don’t tell me till now, you jerk?”

“I
called
you,” said Eddie, whining righteously. “I called you
four times.
Twice yesterday and twice today. You never called me back.”

“Who the fuck’re you I should call you back—?”

“Then what’re you
sore
for? Jesus! I tried to tell you. The way I always. I thought that’s why you sent for me
now.”

He was at the desk going through AC’s phone messages. He found all four of his.

“Look! Here! The proof.
Jesus!”

“O.K., O.K. Quiet down…Anything else?”

“Not right now.”

“All right, then. Blow.”

Eddie starts out, tearfully. At the door, like a hammy exit, he turns and says cheerfully, “And see what you can do for me about the detective part, will ya?”

He is gone. AC stands at the window, looking out over The Public Gardens as though they were the Grand Canyon. I recognize the position of deep contemplation and respect the silence. When, after an extended time, he moves back into the room, I say, “Finished with me?”

He says, “Get me, Larry. And monitor.”

When Larry comes on, AC does not say hello, nor does he exchange amenities of any kind, although Larry invites them with, “I wish you could have seen the new Scene Three today, Boss. You’d have kissed us all. It’s got all the—”

“We’ve got a problem.”

“We’ve got more than one—but which one is on your mind right now?”

“Gloria.”

There follows the longest pause I have ever experienced in a telephone conversation. Finally, Larry.

“Did you say 'Gloria’?”

“You heard me.”

“What about her?”

“She’s out,” says Art.

Another pause.

“I’ll be right over,” says Larry.

“No—don’t do that—I won’t be—”

But Larry has hung up.

“Son of a bitch!” says AC. “Let’s go.”

He gets his jacket.

I say, “Meet you in the lobby.”

“Hurry up.”

I do the best I can, but by the time I get to the lobby and the two of us get to the sidewalk, Larry is there. How he made it from the theatre in that time is a mystery as yet unsolved.

“Not here,” says AC.

“Where then?”

“Come on.” AC crosses the street, nearly getting hit by a taxi and ignoring the driver’s obscene imprecations. Larry helps me across. We catch up with AC and the following takes place crazily as we walk around the Gardens, sit on a bench, get up, sit on another, and generally attract a good deal of attention.

“Let me begin,” says Larry. “O.K.?”

“Help yourself.”

“When you said 'Gloria’ there a while ago, my first thought was that it was one of your wild jokes.”

“No joke,” says AC glumly.

“Then on the way over—I got to thinking. I mean—what in God’s name could it be? The girl is—right now—the best thing in the show, and everyone around thinks it and knows it. Then it hit me, you heard about the dust-up yesterday—and this is your way of handling it.”

AC stops, sits down on a bench. We join him.

“What dust-up?”

“You haven’t heard? In her dressing room? The Inquisition?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s too long to tell—but She made a remark about switching parts with Gloria—”

“No way.”

“It was a gag, Art. For God’s sake. And I twitted her about it and about her coach—”

“What coach?”

“Harry Silverman—and it turned into a brouhaha. So I figured you figured Gloria was going to be the patsy. But I warn you, Art. If you let this Star Monster start to run the show—”

“Yes?” asked AC, too eagerly.

I saw the quick take on Larry’s part. He glanced at me and I could only pray he read me. Probably not. He looked back at AC and said, quietly, “If you let this Star Monster start to run the show…”

“Yes?”

“…She’ll never stop. Hand her the power, and She’ll use it. This player out, this one in. This number, that line, this scene, that effect. She’s a power monkey. We’ve got to control her as of now.”

AC gets up. We walk again.

“It’s got nothing to do with
her,”
he said. “Only with Gloria. She’s lousy.”

Larry stopped in his tracks. I continued walking for a few steps with AC. He turned and moved back to Larry who stood there, dumbfounded.

“What’s the matter?” asked AC. “Too fast for you?”

“I’m going mad, Art. Come on. Help me. This is something personal. It
has
to be. And who do you have in mind to replace her?”

“Nobody.”

Walking again.

“Nobody?!”

“Chris is writing the part out.”

“Impossible.”

“She’s too expensive for what she’s doing in the show. In addition to being lousy.”

“Stop saying that, Art. I mean it.”

“According to Equity, if the part’s eliminated in tryout—we don’t have to pay her a goddamn thing. Two weeks. Then later, we put the stuff back in—slowly, in pieces—and spread it around say, two three different girls do it. So the stuff is in—but she’s out—and that’s the way it’s going to be.”

“And meanwhile, you ruin about three weeks of performances.”

“There’s enough show without her.”

“But no story.”

“Who gives a shit about the story? These yokels up here? They’re still trying to figure out what Rhett did to Scarlett—because they didn’t see it on the screen.”

Larry sits down this time. Art and I stand.

“This is a ghastly mistake you’re making, Art. Maybe a fatal one. Would you please reconsider it?”

“I’ve been considering and reconsidering for a week. That’s long enough for that no-talent broad.”

Larry stands so suddenly that he collides with AC, who trips backward, loses his balance, and falls.

From the ground he points and yells, “He slugged me! Did you see him? You’re a witness. Call a doctor.”

Larry moves to him.

“Get away from me!” he shouts.

“Come on, Art. Don’t be silly. You tripped. I didn’t touch you.”

He helps Art to his feet.

Art says, “Just do what I tell you and I won’t press charges. You slugged me. I’ve got witnesses.” He looks at me. “A witness.”

I cannot take any more of this farce, and say, “I think it was an accident, Mr. Clune.”

“You
think?
But you’re not sure, huh?”

“Stop it, Art,” says Larry. “Look, it’s your show, it’s your dough—and you’ll get what you want—but don’t piss on too many innocent people on the way.”

We are on our way back to the hotel now—AC ahead of us by about three steps.

“How soon?” asks AC.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to talk to Chris first.”

“I’ll
talk to him.”

We reach the hotel. AC keeps walking and without turning back goes into the lobby. Larry and I look at each other. What is there to say? I touch him and follow AC.

Larry speaks to a doorman. “Taxi, Tommy.”

Back in AC’s room, he says, “Chris. Right away.”

I call Chris’s room. No answer. I leave a message. Urgent. I have him paged. I try the theatre. He has been there. Not now. Can’t be found. Message. Urgent. I try for half an hour without success. AC is in and out of the room.

“Messages all over,” I say.

He looks at me with hostility. “You were great out there in the park. Loyal as a mongoose. Remind me to get rid of
you,
too.”

“How about right now?” I say and get up. “I’m getting pretty nauseated on this roller coaster of yours.”

“Sit down,” he says. “Let’s have a drink.”

And we do.

Is evil contagious?

It all went wrong for him this time. He moved too swiftly, too impulsively, and failed to organize the strategy of his deception. Vartan once sent me a framed Chinese aphorism—with translation—to hang in my room at college. It read: HURRY IS A FUNDAMENTAL ERROR.

What happened was that Larry went back to the theatre, found Chris rewriting in the Men’s Room, and questioned him about the changes he had just heard about from Art. Chris, of course, knew nothing of it. Larry did not divine, at this point, that it was the beginning of AC’s campaign to make him quit—but he sensed something bizarre. An aberration of some sort. He alerted Gloria, told her not to be concerned, came back to see AC.

“Art,” he said. “Listen. I can’t do it. I can’t fire an actress I admire and respect—”

“—and screw.”

Larry took a breath. “Oh,” he said. “If only I could. If only.”

“I hear different.”

“You hear wrong, ol’ boy. So
you
fire her. And, by the way, Equity says it has to be in person. Writing does not count. Not anymore.”

AC seemed momentarily thrown.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s leave it a minute. Give me a chance to study it some more. Also. I want to see the rewrites before we take the step.”

Larry laughs.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing. Just the way you use the word 'rewrites.’ Like most guys in your spot—more in the movies than here, but standard. 'Rewrite’ means 'improve’ or 'make better’ or 'fix.’”

“Well, doesn’t it?”

“Of course not. I’d say more stuff is
ruined
in rewriting than improved.”

“You’re batty.”

“What’s that got to do with it? I’m telling you what my experience has been. See, the fact is that writing is hard. It takes a
writer
to write. But
anybody
can rewrite. You, me, Midge, the doorman. All you need to rewrite is a red pencil—or blue. For writing you need talent.”

“Chris’s got plenty of talent.”

“You bet he has. If only we could get him to use it. So far, he just seems to do as he’s told—by you, me, Hy, anybody.”

“So why don’t you leave him alone—all of you?”

“Why don’t
you?”

AC blew. “I’ve got a million-three tied up in this, you dumb bastard! How much’ve
you?”
His face had gone beet-red. He took a step toward Larry. I noticed that the veins on his neck had swelled. His voice was someone else’s as he repeated, “How much’ve you?”

“Just my life,” said Larry. “That’s all, Art. Just my life.”

I doubt that he was heard.

“One thing straight,” said Art hoarsely. “This is
my
show and
you
work for me, see?
I
don’t work for you. You got it straight so far?
You
for
me,
not
me
for
you.
So what
I
say goes, got that? And if you don’t like it that way—you know what you can do. You can quit.”

“And if
you
don’t like it,” said Larry, “you can fire me.
I
work for
you,
see?
You
don’t work for
me…
Well, I think we’ve got
that
straight anyway. May I go now?”

“I wish you would,” said Art.

“Thank you…And, by the way, I’m sorry I slugged you.”

He was gone before Art could think of anything to say. Instead he turned to me.

“Make a note! The date! Four-ten p.m. He said, 'I’m sorry I slugged you.’ Write it down. For the record. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“What’re you smiling about?”

“I don’t know. It’s either that or bust out crying. Fielder’s choice.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Am I surrounded by weirdos! It’s a goddamn wonder
anything
ever gets done. Come to think of it, I’m putting this goddamn show on all by myself! With no help from nobody!”

SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON

Company Bulletin

Thursday, November 8

ROUTINING
: On Monday we will try “Was It Wrong?” after the “Midnight Waltz” in Act II, Scene 3. The “One-Step” will remain as is.

HEALTH
: Dr. Ross recommends
bottled
water while the company is in Philadelphia.

COURTROOM SCENE
: For the “Cantata,” we plan to use 2 speakers on the proscenium for sound reinforcement, plus 4 speakers for sound effects in the rear and sides of the theatre.

We are going to carry a tape deck for offstage sound effects: fire bells, trolley cars, church bells, horses and wagons, cars, street peddlers.

There will be two speakers backstage.

The offstage singers will be split into three groups, with 3 mikes and 3 amplifiers.

ORCHESTRA PIT
: We will hang a skirt around the pit railing in order to contain the sound. In addition, the floor of the pit will be covered with carpeting.

QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:

“All stage players and players of interludes…are hereby declared to be, and are, and shall be taken to be rogues…”

Ordinance of Parliament,

Feb. 9, 1647

THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: FRED MONROE
(Lyricist)

Couldn’t help it, born in Philly.

Most of you will think that silly.

Went to school with all the rest,

Never made but second-best.

Thus it was a slow beginning,

Then New York and started sinning.

Rich aunt died and left some dough.

Wow! You should have seen me go!

Paris, London, Tel-Aviv,

Madrid (which I found hard to leave).

Florence, Venice, then Capri,

Seeing what there was to see.

Hot Morocco was the best;

Moscow, Yalta, then Trieste.

Started writing stories (punk).

Tried a play (it turned out junk).

Took a chance on serious verse;

Result, I fear, was even worse.

Romance reared its lovely head,

Started writing songs instead.

Published one, a hit! Surprise!

Then none until a dozen tries.

Now Monroe Friedman changed his name

To Fred Monroe, and smelled the same.

Broadway debut—a revue—

(That was
not
the thing to do!)

Finally, a full-scale show:

Friends said, “Yes!” the critics, “No!”

Asked to write a song or two

For a Players Sunday-do.

Teamed up with Hy Balaban,

Soon became his greatest fan.

Players stuff turned out a hit,

Clear we were a perfect fit.

Since—a dozen happy shows

(Except when we are in the throes).

The worst is going, willy-nilly,

Back again to hometown Philly.

Who cares what Philadelphia thinks?

Where one says, “Great!” the other, “Stinks!”

“Let’s fix and change and sweat and pray,

Forget tomorrow, work
today!

The end result can be so great,

Or else our show can simply grate.

You are, of course, a perfect Co.

A fact the whole world will soon know.

And so-from Monroe-Balaban:

We love each woman; like each man.

There are now 18 days until our Philadelphia opening.