B00AZRHQKA EBOK (26 page)

“He says you’re welcome to come to the theatre and—”

“Now,
really!
He didn’t actually say
that,
did he?”

“Yes.”

“Welcome to—Who
isn’t,
for heaven’s sake? One buys a ticket and goes in. Can he stop me? Ban me? On what grounds?”

“I suppose he means as his guest,” I continued, weakly.

“Go on.”

“He says he’s complied with all the contractual obligations—even the bio in the program and if there’s any omission, let him know.
Me
know.”

“Yes.”

“He’d appreciate it if you didn’t come to rehearsals and he’d prefer it if you didn’t confer with Mr. Gabel, the director, or with Chris Feller, the author of the book—you know, the libretto.”

“I know.”

He was no longer eating, but was clenching his jaws. I could see the ripple on his cheeks. He was a portrait of controlled fury.

“He said that in view of the situation, you’d understand.”

“Let’s order dessert,” he said. “Then I’ll give you my answer.”

“Nothing for me. Coffee.”

“Come on,” he urged. “Make it festive.”

“Melon.”

“Not me.
Mousse au chocolat,”
he said to the waiter.
“Et deux cafés.”

“Bien, m’sieu.”

“When I was a kid we used to say, 'If it ain’t chawklit, it ain’t dessert!’”

We laughed together and I realized that in spite of all the tension, I was having a good time.

He asked me where I had been born and where raised and where school and seemed interested in the answers. He has a way of looking that draws people out. It did me, anyway.

He told me something about himself—a lot that wasn’t in the
Who’s Who
stuff—and about his wife’s sudden death two years ago. Heart attack playing tennis. Son in the army in Germany. Daughter dropout from UCLA married at seventeen and a TV cameraperson in Los Angeles. His new life alone. The good of it and the bad.

We finished dessert, he looked at his watch and said, “Perfect.” He called the waiter and without consulting me ordered a white crème-de-menthe frappé for me and a brandy for himself. The drinks arrived, he paid the check and sat back.

“I am, you might say, happily satiated, thanks to you—in more ways than one.” He looked at his watch again. “I find that the service in a restaurant is often every bit as important as the food, don’t you agree? Bad service can spoil the finest repast. This place is perfect.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Now. Are you ready for the answer?”

“Just a second.” I reached into my handbag, got out my steno pad and my Blackwing pencil.

“What’s this?” he asked, amused.

“I'm going to take it down,” I said. “For accuracy.”

“Can you?”

“I should hope so. I’m the Production Secretary.”

“I thought you said—”

“I said what I was told to say. I’m the Production Secretary. What’s the difference? Actually—the go-between.”

“There are guys—so devious—they’d rather climb a tree and tell a lie than stay on the ground and tell the truth.”

“I’m ready,” I said.

“Tell him thanks for the free ticket. If I feel like coming to rehearsal, I will—although I doubt it. Rehearsals make me nervous. As to communicating with the writer and the director and so on—I’ll use my judgment and not his. If I have anything to communicate to him—about the show—I’ll put it in writing. What I’m really here for is to determine whether or not I want my name on it. I’ll inform him in a day or two. And whether it is or not, there will be no change in the financial arrangements. Finally, remind him that we went through a long and difficult and agonizing arbitration and that he lost and I won. So he is hardly in a position to call the shots. Paragraph. The weather here is lovely, the first petunias have begun to bloom and if only we could get a little rain, the garden would flourish.” I had stopped taking it down, but he went on. “Well, I guess that’s all the news from here. I hope all goes well with the show. Love to all. Sincerely. Got all that?”

“All,” I said.

I was thinking that I’d better not fall for this man—too complicated, too talented, which usually means too infrequently available. But I was twitching pleasantly down there between my thighs and I resolved that when he came on (why did I think he would?), I would hold back only long enough to make it look respectable. My instinct (infallible in those matters) told me that he was not one who would respond to a predatory female—which I have been on occasion, with lovely results.

We drove back to the theatre. I got him his ticket—fifth row on the center aisle—gave it to him, and started off.

“Oh, Midge!”

I came back.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

Damn! In the confusion, I’d forgotten to thank him for dinner.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Mixed up.”

“Teasing,” he said. “You’re a peach.”

He went into the theatre. I went backstage to look for Art. I found him in the middle of a set-to with Larry.

“I’m not saying it
can’t
go in Monday night,” Larry was saying. “I’m telling you it would be unwise.”

“It’s going in,” said Art tightly.

“It isn’t only the one number, Art. You put a sloppy, half-baked spot in the show and it poisons the whole thing—the players go on frightened—”

“The hell with ’em—they’re all overpaid anyhow. Put the goddamn number in it. That’s it.”

He walked off. I began to follow him, when Alicia stepped into my path and spoke confidentially.

“Tell Larry to come down to wardrobe. Right now.”

I went back, found Larry and told him. He started down and said, “Come along a minute, Midge. I’ve got a million memos. Mr. Barracuda’s striking again. We’re putting 'Talking Machine’ in Monday night. God help us all. It’s nowhere near ready.”

Down in wardrobe, Alicia said to her staff, “Take ten, chums. I need the space.”

They all went out. Alicia closed the door.

“Safe to talk here, do you suppose?”

“Why not?”

“Lord knows. I’m told he’s in the habit of bugging people. Is it true?”

“I don’t know,” said Larry. “I wouldn’t put it past the bastard. He’s
weird.”

“Yes. But in rows such as the present one, he can be knocked for six if we band together—you and Ivan and I.”

“How?”

“I was up there for most of your ordeal. He’s a bloody fool, that’s all. Missed his calling, what’s more. He ought to have been a scoutmaster. All that idiot bluster and giving orders. Sexual, probably. He needs to feel real manly.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Don’t battle him,” said Alicia. “Play along. Rehearse. It’s all set for Monday. No matter how impossible it seems, pay it no mind. Monday it is.”

“And then?”

“Ah! There they are—what Max Beerbohm called the two most charming words in the English language: 'And then?’ And then, Cockie, the
costumes
won’t be ready. Not your fault. Rail at
me
if you like. Scream and yell. But they’re not ready, and there’s an end of it.”

“When
will
they be ready, God damn it—you stupid limey bitch?”

He performed his act so brilliantly that for a moment I thought it was on the level.

“Whenever you say, dear.”

They shook hands, ceremoniously.

“Remind me to marry you,” said Larry, and left.

“Very nice of you,” I said to Alicia.

“Not at all.
Quid pro quo.
He’ll do something for me one day. Perhaps. How are you?”

“Fine.
I think.”

She came over and touched my face.

“You’re so
young,”
she exclaimed.

“I’m getting older,” I said. “Fast.”

“Good,” she said. “You’ll enjoy it, I expect.”

Her staff began to drift back in. I left and went looking for Art again. I found him in the lobby, talking to Ring Lardner, Jr., and Paddy Chayefsky, friends he had invited down to see the show and talk.

When the overture began, the guests went to their seats. Art and I went into the lounge and sat down.

“Well?” he asked.

I got out my notebook, flipped to the right page and began to read back my shorthand notes beginning with: “Tell him thanks for the free ticket”—Art kept interrupting with comments such as, “Son of a bitch!” and “Let him try it,” and
“That’ll
be the day!”

When I had finished, he sat still for a full minute (unusual for him) and seemed momentarily not so much deflated as flummoxed.

“I could set
him
up, too, if I wanted,” he said suddenly.

“I doubt it.” It was out before I could think.

“What? What’d you say?”

“Sorry. It slipped out.”

“What did you?”

“I said, 'I doubt it.’ But I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“Sure it is.”

“I don’t want it to be, Mr. Clune.”

“What makes you think I couldn’t? With him. Bowman.”

“He’s awfully smart.”

“How do you know? He told you?”

“No.”

“Jesus, it’s like Sam Goldwyn once kept telling me about how Frank Loesser was a genius. Over and over. So finally I said to him, 'How do you
know
he’s a genius?’ And Sam said, 'He told me so himself. Personally.’”

“I didn’t say Gene was a genius. I said he was awfully smart.”

“Wait a second. What the hell’s going on here?” I said nothing. “Where do you come off calling him 'Gene’? You know him from before? How come you didn’t tell me?”

“No. I met him tonight for the first time. He took me to dinner.”

“He did, huh? Where?”

“Le Champignon.”

“Who paid?”

“He did.”

“I’m surprised. One thing I found out about this bird. He makes out how he’s one of these high-class above-it-all integrity characters and when you come right down to it—to the nitty-gritty—it turns out the bastard’s money mad. Everything for sale with him, including integrity.”

“It was a very good dinner,” I said.

“And he told you call him 'Gene,’ right?”

“Yes.”

“What a character! Right in there. Did he give you a little footsie job under the table?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Cop a feel in the taxi?”

“He had a limo.”

“A
what!”

“Yes.”

“Figures. With my money. That’s great. Just great. Also, him you call 'Gene’—me you call Mr. Clune?”

“I’ll call you anything you say, Mr. Clune.”

“Call me Snookyookums,” he said. “God
damn,
how you got to watch these politicians. He’s here ten minutes and already he’s working himself into the family where he doesn’t belong. No doubt he dripped plenty of that phony Chicago charm all over you. I think I can see some of it. Wipe it off, y’mind?”

“Look, Mr. Clune—”

“Art!”
he yelled.

“Look, Art. You gave me a job to do and I did it. I think it’s wrong of you to abuse me for it.”

“You
think it’s wrong? Who the hell are
you
to think?”

“I wonder.”

“How long is he going to hang around? Did he say?”

“No.”

“You didn’t ask him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You didn’t tell me to.”

“Well, Jesus—haven’t you got
any
initiative?”

“Sometimes.”

“What did you think of him?”

“Interesting. Attractive. Intelligent.”

“What else did he say? That wasn’t the whole everything, was it ߝ what you read me?”

“Of course not.”

“So what else? Or is it confidential?”

“Not at all. What I read was his direct response to your message. But before that he said—let’s see. Not all of it would interest you, but…oh, yes. I told him how marvelously the show is capturing the period and he said he didn’t think much of most of the score.”

He was on his feet. “How’d he hear the score?”

“He got it somehow. A cassette.”

“God damn it! I’ll
kill
somebody!”

An usher appeared in the arch.

“Sssshhh,” she shushed. “Show’s on.”

“I
know
it’s on! I
put
it on! Get outta here!”

The usher retreated.

“Find out who sent him the score.”

“How can I?”

“Ask him.”

“He won’t tell me.”

“I’ll find out. If it’s the last thing I
do
, I’ll find out. I’m surrounded by double-crossing parasites.” He sat down, wearily. “What else?” he asked.

“Let’s see. About his name on the show—I told him that as things stood now, there was very little of his book, in it, so—”

He was on his feet again.

“You read the book?” he thundered.

The usher appeared again. He dispatched her with a look.

“Yes,” I said, and knew I had blundered.

“How come?”

“I found a copy at The Strand in New York during rehearsals.”

“Why?”

“I was interested. No one told me it was the great taboo. I found that out later. After I’d read it. So too late.”

He sat down again and began thinking. Thinking? Did he
ever
think? Or was it all plotting and planning and scheming? Meanwhile, I turned my thoughts onto myself. I had just lied shamefully. Why? To protect Larry, of course. But see how the atmosphere infects. A year or two and I’ll be like the rest of them. Playing the game. What of it? Doesn’t
everyone?

He was talking to me again.

“All right. So you’ve read this crap. And you know the show. So what do
you
think?”

“About what?”

“About
what?
About what the hell we’re talking about? Which is better?”

“Hard to say—the book is a
book.”

“A lousy book.”

“I loved it.” He glanced at me. “As a book.”

“And the show?”

“Well, that’s still a work in progress, isn’t it?”

“Christ, you’re slippery. Like everybody else around here. A lot of eels I’ve got. I ask for straight answers and all I get is goddamn pretzels.” He was angry. With me. His finger in my face. “Am I right?”

I thought it best to avoid engaging him, so I simply nodded. He sat down beside me.

“Let me get your opinion on something, all right?”

“Of course.”

“About him. Bowman. Knowing what you know—about him and the book and the show—what do you think? Will he want his name on or off?”