B00AZRHQKA EBOK (33 page)
Authors: Garson Kanin
The most violent battle thus far has been concluded. “Big Town” is out. Art and Star and Val and the record boys and Hy are the victors. All others are the losers—including the audience.
I suppose I suspected from the beginning that the number was a lost cause, but Larry fought hard, and indeed was making such a powerful case for it that even the record boys showed signs of weakening.
Art, a past master in noting which way the wind is blowing, yelled louder and louder, with Val providing a stentorophonic counterpoint. This particular round ended with the suggestion by the record boys to leave it in until they could have one more look.
At 5:30 the following afternoon, Art phoned me and said, “Meet me at the theatre in twenty minutes.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I’m in the shower.”
“Twenty-five minutes,” he said.
“I don’t think I—”
That was as far as I got. He hung up.
I got to the theatre at 6:10. He waiting for me backstage.
“You’re late,” he said. “You wanna watch that. You’re not indispensible, you know. In fact, you’re
dispensable.”
“And shall I tell you what
you
are?”
“Not now,” he said. “I haven’t got the time. Come with me.”
I followed him downstairs to the area beneath the stage. No one there except Maurice and Bonnie in the wardrobe section.
Art proceeded to climb through the passage into the orchestra pit. He turned and beckoned me to follow. All at once, there I was, in the pit—where I had never been before. A strange sensation. Claustrophobic. How do the musicians stand it?
“C’mere,” said Art.
I joined him. He was going through the piano part of the score, handling the thick folio awkwardly. I worried that he would drop it.
“Careful,” I said. “That gets out of order and God knows what—”
“Shut up!” he said. “Here. Here it is—about four numbers after it says Act Two. See it?”
“Yes. What about it?”
“I’m
telling
you what about it if you’ll listen instead of talking all the goddamn time!”
What was he so angry about? Nerves, no doubt.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Now see this number here? The one says 'Big Town’?”
“Yes.”
“O.K. We’re taking it out of every part. Get going.”
“What?”
“Don’t ask questions. Just do what I’m tellin’ you. And don’t forget the
conductor’s
part up there.”
He started at one end of the pit—the percussion section. I began with the double-basses. It took much longer than I thought it was going to, but just before 7:00, we met in the woodwind section. He grabbed the stack of parts out of my hands, put them with his into an A&P shopping bag and started out. I went with him. In the alley, he stopped and said to me, “Keep it to yourself.”
“Of course.”
“Never mind the 'of course’—I'm not so goddamn sure I trust you—I hear things.”
“I don’t doubt it—with the bunch of blabs and scandalmongers and gossips and spies
you’ve
got in your ear all the time.
I
hear things, too, about you.”
“You don’t say!”
“And if you don’t trust me, or if you’re not sure—why ask me to
do
stuff like that?”
“Who else have I got?”
“Or why didn’t you do it yourself?”
“You want to know somethin’?” he asked. “Your big mouth is going to land you in all kinds of trouble one of these days.”
“It already has,” I said, and left him.
Keeping this latest caper of his dark was as difficult a thing as I have yet had to do on this whole damned show. But I concluded that bringing it out into the open at this late hour would serve only to complicate matters. As it stood, unless someone discovered the thing—there would be a rough half-minute during the performance and that would be all.
I was wrong. Again. It was only a rough ten seconds. Star and Sammy were ready to go on, She on the prompt side, he on the opposite side. The change music ended. A beat. A sound of confusion in the pit as some of the musicians realized there was a part missing. Phil rapped his baton sharply and I heard him say, “Rack! Play the rack! Now! One, two!”
And they went into the next number. Meanwhile, Clay, thinking an error had been made—simply ordered the set change, which was accomplished in ten seconds and the show went on, having skipped “Big Town.” I could hear noises in the wings—but I doubt that the audience was aware of anything untoward.
Art decided to pass the whole thing off as a great joke. As it happens, he was the only one who thought it was funny.
Still, he has accomplished what he wished. The number is out and apparently is going to
stay
out.
I permit myself a moment of satisfaction and say to him, when we are alone, “Now that it’s over, may I tell you that I thought it was a nasty, unprofessional, inconsiderate thing to do?”
“You may,” he replies smugly. “And may
I
tell
you
that all’s fair in love and war and musicals?”
SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON
Company Bulletin
Tuesday, December 4
DISCIPLINE
: At this point in our work, we must begin to avoid onstage break-ups and inside jokes. Amateur actors break up—professional actors do not. Errors, accidents, and unexpected occurrences are not humorous in the course of our work. Let us have all our parties, fun, and games offstage and after hours, but onstage in performances, respect the material, one another, and the institution of the theatre.
HEALTH NOTE
: Does everyone in the company know about the beneficial effects of Knox Gelatin? Easily obtainable, it provides a quick source of energy through its protein. Many dancers, baseball players, football players, and pole vaulters have proved that gelatin taken in plain water, milk or fruit juice adds energy and staves off fatigue.
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: MILLIE KRAMER
(Lighting)
In case you don’t know me by name, I don’t blame you. I did (am doing) the lighting.
Chicago-born. Dreamed of being an actress. Imagine it. Me! Went to Goodman, found out I didn’t have it. Stayed on as Assistant Stage Manager. Left and went to Yale and studied lighting with Stanley McCandless.
New York. Fourth or fifth assistant to the great Jean Rosenthal. Saw there was a chance in the field for women. Moved on. Alley Theatre in Houston, Mark Taper in L.A., etc. It
is
a field with room for women: not only Jean but Tharon Musser, Jennifer Tipton—
me!
ROUTINE
: “On the Night Boat” will be relit on Thursday. For all concerned rehearsal on stage in costume 11:00 A.M.
Stu Bender
OUR OWN NORA
:
She once took this ad in the theatrical paper—ZIT’S.
“I, NORA BAYES, being of sound body and in my right mind (open for discussion) do hereby declare my independence by trying to please you, oh you fickle public, in giving you what you think you want. Heretofore, you have complained at the shortness of my programme. Lo!! Your punishment be on your own hands. On the date, and at the place set forth below, I will start to sing, and nothing but the police will be able to stop me.” Nora Bayes
QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:
“God watches over you, but He won’t cash checks.”
“Pop” Faye, Chicago newspaperman
There are now 16 days remaining until our New York opening.
Misery. Gene has had to go back to Chicago. If I knew for how long, I could bear it, I suppose. But he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say. An editorial shake-up of some kind on the paper.
I clung to him through the night and did not sleep. He did. He sleeps beautifully.
At breakfast, I told him so.
“You’re a nut,” he said.
“If you don’t come back,” I said, “I’ll die.”
“You’ll die anyway,” he said. “What the hell do you think you are—immortal?”
“But the show,” I insisted. “It needs you.”
“Right now,” he said, “the show needs to be left alone. My mother used to say—'It’ll never get well if you pick it.’ The show is beginning to have a life of its own. It can use a rest from all us masterminds.”
I went with him to the airport and did not cry until the plane took off. He would not have liked it. Then I watched the plane, with my life inside it, become a speck in the sky—then nothing.
The accident occurred at rehearsal. Thank God. It could easily have happened in performance. One of the boy dancers—Arvin—dropped his partner, Diana, during the big “Waltz” number, just as they reached the top of the staircase. Being a dancer, she knew how to fall, or else she might have been hurt even more badly than she was. She fell flat on her back and broke her coccyx. The doctor who came from Presbyterian Hospital said she might easily have broken her back, her spine, or even fractured her skull. So everyone in the company was relieved and grateful until the police turned up after the matinee and began the investigation.
It turns out that in the course of making a series of routine tests on Diana at the hospital, it was discovered that she had recently ingested a large amount of cocaine.
When questioned, she freely admitted having sniffed some during rehearsal. During the grilling, she was tired and scared and sedated and utterly miserable. Apparently, she didn’t give a damn about anything or anyone. Almost anyone. Nothing on earth, apparently, would induce her to reveal her source, her connection. The narcs came in soon afterward, an investigation was launched, and now was underway.
Art responded to the whole affair in his usual hysterical way. Cocaine in the company! His solution was to fire Diana at once.
Jenny, now clear-headed and confident, was able to block this nutty move.
“Listen, you chucklehead,” she said to him. “This is old hat to me. I’ll tell you how to handle it. Smoke out the connection in the company and straighten him. Or her.”
“How the hell can I do that?”
“I don’t know. But maybe you won’t have to. Maybe the Keystone Kops’ll do it for you.”
“Nobody in your bunch would give you a hint?” he asked. “After all, it seems to be them that’s on it.”
“What in Christ’s name are you talking about, Art? Do you know? Or are you just beating your gums?”
“Wait a second—”
“Is there any connection at
all
between your brain and your mouth—or is it all short-circuited?”
“I didn’t—”
“The dancers, for God’s sake, are probably the least of it. The whole
company’s
shot through with just about everything there is. Uppers, downers, grass, snow, booze—even—”
“Booze doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not illegal.”
“Oh, brother!”
“I'm gonna put it up on the bulletin board,” he said. “I don’t want any potheads in this show. Or acidheads. Or cokies. I’ll serve warning. It’s bad enough I’m stuck with fags and dykes—but what can I do?”
“You can stop making noises.”
“Don’t tell me—”
“I said stop, Art. I mean it.”
He stopped.
Why did this exchange—and particularly its ending—so delight me? A bully bullied? A monster tamed? A little of each, I suppose. How has Jenny tamed this beast? Odd how it all comes down to the primitive in the end. All roads lead to and from the great male-female game. In work, business, life.
A jolt this morning that has me still reeling this afternoon.
Clay Botsford was arrested at 7:00 a.m. Two policemen and a detective, all connected with the Narcotics Squad, came here to The Barclay, woke him, told him to get dressed, and took him into custody. He was not allowed to make a phone call until after he had been booked and jailed and a bail hearing set.
He then, for some reason, called me and gave me the staggering details. I say “for some reason,” but thinking on it, the reason is clear. Art would have panicked. Clay’s lawyer is in New York. So it was characteristically sensible on his part to phone me. I got hold of Art by eight-twenty. He got Paul Cooley and Joe Block, the theatre manager, to come right over. Then, uninvited, Cindy Sapiro turned up. The things we learn as we move from crisis to crisis. The damndest people come through in a pinch. I have noticed it before. Strong ones, powers, often collapse under pressure. Diffident ineffectuals frequently rise to the necessity of the occasion.
So it was this morning with Cindy. I have regarded her, up to now—and with justification—as a feckless dilettante with nothing to recommend her or to justify her existence except her money. I have never heard her utter one sensible or practical sentence. Her snobbishness is a proverb. She is the sort of woman who is disliked by her
friends!
Yet, this morning, she proved to be the heroine of the miserable emergency. She is a born take-charge, but has not been allowed to pursue that bent on this show. Too many other take-charges around. But at the hysterical meeting today, she was pragmatic and calm. In three phone calls, she had found a top lawyer with political connections. She had called Washington and New York and held whispered, unintelligible conversations.
I tried to call Gene in Chicago, but could not reach him.
The lawyer, Thomas Edward Atkins, arrived. When I learned that he had those three names, I was instantly relieved. Any lawyer with three names has
got
to be superior. Especially a Philadelphia lawyer.
In the car (Cindy’s) on the way to the Municipal Jail, Art kept asking Thomas Edward Atkins if he would make sure, whatever else happened, to get Clay sprung so that he could run the show tonight.
“There’s nobody else can handle it,” he explained.
“We’ll do all we can.”
“That’s not enough,” said Art. “I need the guy in the theatre
tonight.
Will they understand that?”
“We’ll do what we can.”
“You just said that,” said Cindy. “Don’t say it again.”
“Boy, he sure fooled
me,”
said Art. “Clean-cut, neat, WASP, college man. Son-of-a-bitch turns out to be a pusher.”
“You know what you are, Clune?” asked Cindy.
“Certainly.”
“You’re a goddamn fool. And a dangerous bastard.”
“Watch it!”
“You
watch it. Where the hell do you come off being judge and jury and hangman all of a sudden? What makes you assume he’s guilty?”
“Because!” Art yelled, lamely.
“Oh,” said Cindy. “My mistake.”
“Why’d they nab him if he didn’t?” insisted Art. “They didn’t
me.
Or
you.
They got
him.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing,” said Cindy. “They like to start someplace. Isn’t that so, Mr. Atkins?”
“Possibly.”
Art again. “They must have
some
evidence.
Some
witnesses. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. Edwards?”
“Possibly.”
“But I mean to say—whatever—we can bail him out, can’t we? At least for a couple of days? For tonight?”
“We’ll do what we can,” said Thomas Edward Atkins.
Cindy flicked the ash from her cigarette into his lap as we reached our destination.
After a good deal of wrangling, most of it incomprehensible to anyone but the judge and Atkins (and I’m not too sure of them, either), bail was set at $10,000 against an arraignment one week from today.
“There are bondsmen in the hall,” said Atkins. “I know several of them.”
“Tell ’em to get lost,” said Cindy. “I’ll handle this. Who needs
their
rip-off? In the end, it’s going to be Clay himself who pays up. So why
load
him?”
“Well,” said Atkins, “as a matter of expediency—I thought—they won’t take a check, you see, unless it’s certified, and that might take—I understood there was a need for speed, since—” He stopped.
“Do you ever finish a sentence?” asked Cindy. “I’ve got it right here. Who gets it?”
“The clerk,” said Atkins. “Are you sure you?…”
“Sure I’m sure. I figured something like this would come up so I came prepared. That’s the secret of my success. I’m always prepared. Tell you the truth, I thought it was going to be
more.”
We moved with her, instinctively, to the Court Clerk’s desk. No one wanted to miss
this
spectacle.
Papers signed and notarized, then out of Cindy’s handbag came a ten-inch manila envelope. She took a bundle of paper money from it and counted out ten $1000 bills. Even the cool, unruffled Thomas Edward Atkins was ruffled for the first time today.
We waited twenty minutes or so before Clay was brought into the room. He winked at us, and proceeded to sign what
he
had to sign before being released.
“That it?” he asked, cheerfully.
“You are free to go,” said the Court Clerk.
We started out. I observed that of all of us, Clay seemed the least concerned.
“I need some proper breakfast,” he said. “Where’s the nearest?” He looked at Atkins.
“You
ought to know.”
“Yes,” said Atkins.
He took us across the street to a Victorian-type restaurant. He asked for, and got, a large corner table away from the other customers.
Clay ordered a Bloody Mary, steak and eggs, lyonnaise potatoes, rye toast, and Sanka.
The rest of us settled for coffee and Danish.
Art tried to regain control of the situation.
“All right, Clay. Let’s have it. What
is
this shit?”
“Please,” said Atkins, pained.
“The best thing,” said Cindy, “is to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. That’s been my experience. We’re all friends here and no finks—so talk up, and then this good attorney will advise us. You.”
“I find it all highly hilarious,” said Clay. “I may be the
only
member of this glandular company who’s absolutely
clean.
I gave up all forms
years
ago. I don’t even drink
coffee,
for heaven’s sake. I could sing a song or two if I had a mind to—but no. I’m more interested in getting to the bottom of this sleazy affair. And when I do—”
Two blotches of red appeared on his cheeks, his whole face flushed. He laughed.
Atkins spoke. “If I were you, Mr. Botsford, I’d take this matter more seriously. The charge against you is grave.”
“Mr. Atkins,” said Cindy, “is one of the finest lawyers in Philadelphia.”
“I appreciate that, Mrs. Sapiro. And I appreciate all
you’ve
done. But listen. All of you. I don’t believe in much, but I do believe in justice—and I can’t find it within myself to believe that someone completely innocent can be framed.”
“It’s been done,” said Art, darkly.
“Maybe. But it’s not going to be done to
me.
This whole silly mess is a crazy mistake.”
Art was drumming on the table with the prongs of a fork.
“Are you
sure,
Clay?” he asked.
Clay regarded him, carefully. It was clear that he was ending his personal relationship with Art then and there and for all time.
“The difficulty is,” said Atkins, “that as of now, the authorities have a strong case against you. I might say a
very
strong case.”
Clay was stunned, his expression incredulous. His lips formed the word “What?”—but no sound emanated.
Atkins took a document from his breast pocket, changed eyeglasses, looked at the paper in his hand, and said, “According to the investigators—who were properly armed with search warrants—large quantities of cocaine, heroin, marijuana, amphetamines, and barbiturates were found in a locked compartment in a trunk bearing your name in your office at The Shubert Theatre.”
Clay could manage only,
“My
trunk.”
“Yes.”
“When was this?”
“At eight-thirty a.m. on Friday, November thirtieth—the day after the accident.”
“Jesus God!” said Clay.
“You deny knowledge of its contents?” asked Atkins, formally. “This is all quite informal, you understand. There is no oath involved.”
“I understand,” Clay replied gravely. “Yes, I deny that I ever knew anything about it.”
Cindy. “Don’t they have to prove he
sold
something to somebody?”
“No, Mrs. Sapiro. They do not.
Possession
is sufficient for conviction under Statute Seven-oh-four B.”
“And anyway, for Chrissake,” said Art, “you think anybody who bought it or got it from wherever is going to say so? From where? Use your head.”
“Don’t sass me, Art,” said Cindy, sharply. “So far,
I’ve
done more on this than
you
have. So cork it!”
“Please,” said Atkins.
“The question,” said Clay, “is who. Who put it there? Why seems clear. But
who?”
“And how?” asked Atkins. “What sort of lock does it have?”
“A combination.”
“Is there anyone who might—in any way—know it? Have it?”
Clay thought hard. “No,” he said, finally. “Wait…Yes. An assistant I once had. A girl. But she’s not an assistant anymore. She’s on a show of her own.”
“When did you last see her?”
“A year and a half—maybe two years ago.”
“Oh. Well, that’s a dead clue, then, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Clay.
“All right,” said Atkins. “We have a week to gather information. I’ll put two men on it. Can we count on any cooperation from the company?”
“Of course,” said Clay.
“I doubt it,” said Art.
“Definitely not,” said Cindy.
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because,” said Cindy, “they’re all looking-out-for-Number-One types. They’re all going to be looking to save their own skins. What a bunch! Fags, dykes, drunks, hopheads.”
“Well,” said Art. “That’s show business!”
“The hell it is,” said Clay, getting up. “I’ll see you all later.”
He walked out, alone, and we let him go because it was clear that was what he wanted.
We sat for a time, saying nothing.
For some reason, I kept thinking of that one “dead clue.” The assistant who knew the combination. Who was she? Where was she?
I called Clay around five and asked him if he would like to have a six-o’clock dinner. He said yes.
At Bookbinder’s, we ran into at least a dozen friends from the show. They had turned into other people. They smiled and waved and stopped at our table, but it was all different. A game. A charade. I could see that we were moving into a strange and uptight time.
After we had ordered, Clay took a sip of his vermouth cassis, and asked, “How serious do you think this is, Midge?”
“Depends,” I said. “I called my brother and told him the whole everything. Also Gene. He’s going to try to get back as soon as he can.”
“And what did
he
say?”
“He’s worried.”
“About
me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He says anybody with a connection knows that the connection has to be somehow involved with the organization. Otherwise, there’s no source. And he says the minute there’s a bust, everyone concerned—buyers, sellers—gets the word to clam. Or else. And it usually works, he says. Eventually, someone takes the rap, and it’s back to business as usual.”
Clay smiled. “And whatever happened to that innocent until proven—
you
know?”
“I
don’t
know.”
Our soup was served, and we tried to deal with it.
“That assistant you mentioned before,” I said.
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Tell me.”
“Nan,” he said. “Nan Arnold.”
“Is there anybody on
this
show who was on any of those you did with
her?”
“God, I don’t know.”
“Think.”
He thought for a long time, reviewing the past. Finally, he said, “No. No one. Funny what a turnover in this business. Every year, almost, a new crop.”
“Not exactly. They say Jenny has had practically this same bunch for
several
years.”
“Yes, I suppose. But I’ve never worked with her before. What did the show run last night, do you know?”
I got out my notebook and consulted it.
“Two hours, forty-two, without intermission.”
“And how long was that intermission?”
I looked again.
“Twenty-two minutes.”
“Too long. We’ve
got
to cut it down.”
I realized that he had deliberately changed the subject. He knew perfectly well what the running time had been and the length of the intermission.
We talked of nothing but the show from that point on.
I asked Jenny out for a drink after the show—and was astonished when she ordered ginger ale.
“Jesus!” she said after the first sip. “I’ll bet anybody anything this is worse for you than booze. It’s not only chemical, it’s
synthetic
chemical.
Cut
chemical.”
“Have a drink,” I said.
“You
of all people,” she said. “O.K. You talked me into it. Vodka tonic. Russian.”
I talked her into four. She became her old loquacious self.
“Well,” she said. “That Clay’s got his fagotty ass in a sling, wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t know. Has he?”
“Damn right. You never know about those smoothies. But wow! You could’ve fooled
me.”
“Did you ever get anything from him?”
“Me? What would I get? What is
this?
You diggin’, you little cunt? Is that why you’re plying me—trying to get me plastered?”
I laughed my best laugh.
“Honestly, Jenny,” I said. “Why so distrustful? Everybody’s your enemy,
you
think.”
“That’s just what I’m going to need before
this
night’s out. An enema.”
