Desert Spring (19 page)

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Authors: Michael Craft

BOOK: Desert Spring
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I paused before acceding, “Very well. If you insist.”
“I do,” she said firmly.
The thump of a backstage door provided a timely interruption to our conversation, which had grown tiresome and upsetting. As the door opened, a shaft of daylight spilled across the black floor. “Miss Gray?” called a voice, Morgan's. “You still here?”
“Yes, Morgan,” I answered, stepping off to the wing.
He closed the door. “I thought I'd shut down all the lights, but if you ladies—”
“No, Morgan, that'll be fine. We're finished here.”
Kiki told me, “I really do need to run—that practicum class.”
“And I have errands that shouldn't wait.”
We stepped to each other and, uncertainly, exchanged a good-bye kiss on the cheek.
Then Kiki went her way.
I went mine.
My bouncy mood had soured considerably by the time I crossed College Circle again. Heading away from the theater, toward the administration building, I wasn't listening to the birds and going gaga over the weather. This time, I struggled with my mixed feelings about Kiki. I was angry, sorry, suspicious, and defensive; my thoughts were adrift in a jumbled stew of conflicting emotions.
Entering the circular office building, I decided to keep my meeting with Glenn Yeats brief, spend a few minutes in my own office reconstructing my guest list, then go home to think things through. After seven months on campus, I had at last learned to navigate the confusing curved floor plan of the administration building without getting lost or retracing my steps, so moments after leaving the plaza, I found myself outside the gleaming mahogany doors that led to Glenn's luxurious suite of offices—the inner sanctum.
Stepping inside his reception room, I was struck, as always, by its understated elegance—and the arctic chill of its air-conditioning. I don't know whether Glenn Yeats had some neurological problem with his body thermostat (I wasn't brazen enough to ask), but I never managed to enter his windowless domain without fighting off a crop of goose bumps.
“Ahhh, Ms. Gray,” cooed Glenn's executive secretary, Tide
Arden, a tall, ferocious-looking black woman with an incongruous voice of honey, softened further by the trace of a lisp. She had stepped out from her office, which in turn guarded the entrance to the holy of holies. “Always such a pleasure. What can I do for you?”
“I'd like to see Glenn. Is he in?”
“He is, Ms. Gray, but I'm afraid he's occupied right now.” She frowned an apology for delivering such crushing news.
I suggested, “Perhaps you could give him a message.”
“Of course. Let me write it down.” She led me to her desk, prinking atop spike heels that made her appear all the more Amazonian. As she moved, the long, ropy muscles of her thighs flexed beneath a tight leather miniskirt. As usual, she wore a halter top adorned with chromed studs and grommets, exposing a good deal of flesh—but no goose bumps. Was she, I wondered, warm-blooded? Or had she simply adapted to her boss's frosty environment? When she had settled at her keyboard, flexing her mannish fingers with French-manicured nails, she asked, “And your message?”
Recalling the last time my words had been transcribed, Saturday night by Kemper Fahlstrom, I paused to rehearse my message before Tide could commit it to paper. I then told her, “This is in regard to the summer theater workshop.” She pecked away, nodding, as I continued, “After due deliberation, I have decided, in the best interest of the school and of my program, that—”
A nervous buzz interrupted us, issuing from Tide's telephone, a many-buttoned instrument of titanic proportions. A red light blinked. We both halted.
“Excuse me,” she said. She didn't need to explain who was calling. Lifting the receiver, she answered, “Yes, sir.”
I listened idly as she scratched a few notes and voiced one-word replies to various questions.
Then she flipped a page of her gilt-edged desk calendar, saying,
“No, Mr. Yeats. No other appointments this afternoon, but Ms. Gray does happen to be standing here right now.” She winked at me. “Of course, sir. I thought you'd want to see her.” Tide hung up the phone and stood, offering a huge smile.
“Don't tell me I've been admitted.”
“Yes, Ms. Gray.” Her breathy tone carried such pride, one would have thought she'd cracked the gates to Oz. “This way, please.”
I knew the way, but she seemed to take pleasure in escorting me, so I followed as she crossed the room, gripped the knob (I had no doubt she could have ripped the door off its hinges, if so inclined), and led the way to the inner office. She announced me: “Ms. Gray.” Then she slunk out, closing the door behind her.
With a beaming smile, Glenn rose from behind his semicircular, granite-topped desk. Rows of computer monitors flickered behind him, set into a curved wall of creamy travertine. The Oz metaphor again traced through my mind.
“Claire,”
he gushed. “What an unexpected surprise.”
“I'm delighted you're so easily pleased.”
“You know Lance Caldwell, of course.” Glenn gestured to one of the buttery-brown leather sofas that formed a U in front of his desk.
As he did so, the faculty's composer in residence rose and turned to me. “Good afternoon, Claire.” Forty-something, lanky, and long-haired, wearing a black turtleneck, he looked every inch the maestro at leisure. The sweater struck me as far too warm for April in the desert, but it struck me as just right in Glenn's frigid office; I wished I'd worn one.
“Hello, Lance,” I said. A handshake didn't seem called-for—we were colleagues, and he'd visited my home on Saturday night—so we exchanged a casual nod. I told both him and Glenn, “I didn't mean to interrupt. It's really not important. I can come back.”
“Nonsense,”
said Glenn. “Lance and I have been having a long
discussion—too long—and frankly, we're getting nowhere. Maybe you could help.”
“I will if I can.”
“Do have a seat, Claire. Make yourself comfortable.”
As instructed, I settled on a second leather sofa, facing Lance's. Both the composer and the college president resumed their seats.
“Now, then,” Glenn asked, “what can I do for you?”
Brightly, I answered, “I don't mean to sound egotistical, but it's more a matter of what
I
can do for
you,
Glenn.” There was nothing egotistical about the message I had come to deliver, but the word seemed to pop from my lips. As soon as I'd said it, I understood why—Lance Caldwell had always struck me as the personification of an inflated ego. In all fairness, his musical talents were enormous, but so was his opinion of himself. This, coupled with his artistic leanings, gave him the air of the quintessential prima donna.
“Well, now,” said Glenn, “isn't
that
enticing? So tell me, Claire, what can you do for me?” He chortled.
“It's the summer theater program, the workshop.”
“Ahhh.” His brows arched with interest.
“In a nutshell, Glenn, I'd like to do it. If you still have interest in running the program, I'll commit to it.”
“Still have
interest
?” he asked, as if I were nuts. “Certainly, Claire. The more we can offer, the better; the more publicity, the better. I've wanted the workshop all along, but I'm amazed that you're willing to put in the extra effort.”
“It'll be worth it,” I said objectively. “I don't need to remind you, we're losing Tanner. He'll be hard to replace, but there's other talent in the pipeline. I'm especially impressed with Thad Quatrain, who's finishing his first year. He told me he'd attend the workshop if we held it, and that's what swayed me.”
Glenn nodded. “You think he's the real deal?”
“He might be. And if he is, he'll be around for a while.”
Slyly, Glenn said, “I like your thinking, Claire—so calculating, unflinching, and premeditated.”
I laughed, asking, “That's a bit over the top, isn't it? You make it sound as if I
killed
someone.” Then my smile fell. The last thing I needed just then was to plant
that
idea in anyone's head. I coughed, adding, “So if you want the program, you've got it.”
“I want it. In fact, I've been planning on it. I asked Tide to draw up the contract rider this morning. You can sign on your way out if you like.”
“I should have known—one step ahead of me.” I rose.
The billionaire broke into a pouty frown. “Can't you stay?”
“For a few minutes, I suppose.” I sat again.
Glenn smiled with satisfaction. “We need your advice.” He turned to the composer. “Don't we, Lance?”
As if waking from a nap, Lance replied, “Sure, Glenn, sure. If you say so.”
“I do.” Glenn turned to me again. “When Lance wrote the incidental music for your production of
Laura
last fall, everyone agreed that it was a spectacular contribution to the overall effort.”
Without hesitation, I concurred, “Lance's original score
made
that show. He perfectly captured both the mood of the script and the style of the production. Lance's music was every bit the equal of David Raksin's famed movie score. In fact, better.” My words were true enough, but intentionally inflated for the sake of the composer's self-image. No doubt about it—Lance Caldwell thrived on adulation, and I hoped to cajole him into lending his talents to future productions.
“You're
far
too generous,” he told me, lapping it up.
“Not at all, Lance dear.” Turning to Glenn, I asked, “So what's the, uh … problem?”
“Let me back up,” explained Glenn. “When your production of
Laura
opened, inaugurating both the DAC theater program and the
theater building itself, you invited numerous theatrical luminaries to the gala, including, of course, Spencer Wallace. And what a launch it was! We garnered national press.”
“Yes, Glenn.” His unquenchable appetite for publicity went beyond boring.
“At the reception following the performance, Wallace met Lance, and—”
The composer picked up the story, telling me, “And Wallace took me aside to say that he'd absolutely
adored
my score—he
loved
the incidental music, which, in his words, ‘made the show.'”
Though I myself had spoken the same words only moments earlier, I was galled to hear it attributed to Spencer and repeated by Lance. “Yes?” I asked patiently. Lance was oblivious to the steely edge my tone had taken on.
“Well,”
he continued, enjoying his own story with breathless excitement, “Wallace and I chatted for some time that night, and after a drink or two, he casually mentioned that I might compose the score for one of his future film projects. Needless to say, this struck me as a marvelous suggestion—to enhance the prestige of the school, I mean.” Lance smiled at Glenn.
Glenn returned his smile.
“So when I got wind of
Photo Flash,
I thought it would make an excellent vehicle for an original score. I phoned Wallace's office, inquiring if I might have a look at the screenplay. I wanted to study it before I began toying with a few thematic sketches. The secretary I spoke to didn't know
anything,
but when she checked and found out ‘who I was,' she sent the script
immediately.
”
I nodded knowingly. “I'm sure.” Deciding to accommodate him with another stroke, I added, “I'll bet she's
still
bragging up a storm in the steno pool, telling about the day when Lance Caldwell phoned.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “So I studied the script, and I liked it—
solid plotting, good dramatic tension—but I saw at once that the film could be immeasurably improved by a first-class score. And I wrote one.”
“Hm.” I thought for a moment. “Really? I hadn't heard anything about that. Neither Spencer nor Tanner ever mentioned that you were doing the music.”
Glenn told me, “That's where this story gets sticky.”
“Oh?”
Lance continued, “I wrapped up my work about a month ago. The score requires full orchestration, naturally—it's lush, it's
me
—and that gets pricey. So for presentation purposes, I recorded a synthesized version of the music, burnt it onto a CD, and sent it to Wallace along with the written score.”
This struck me as standard procedure. “It sounds as if the project is moving right along.”
“Well, uh …
no,
it isn't.”
Glenn leaned toward me, propping his elbows on the granite desk. Speaking softly, as if imparting something indelicate, he explained, “The project isn't moving along, at least with regard to Lance's score, because Wallace, in a word, hated it.”
“Ah,” I said flatly. “I see.”
“Can you imagine?” Lance was now huffy. “I poured my musical heart and soul into that score, only to have some Hollywood philistine tell me, ‘It's not right for my script. I had something altogether different in mind.'”
In recent days, I'd heard many unflattering assertions regarding Spencer Wallace's character, but I'd never heard anyone describe him as less than a genius when it came to the art and craft of filmmaking. If Spencer felt Lance's score was wrong for his script, it had surely missed by a mile. Softening this conclusion, I told Lance, “In the artistic realm, judgments can sometimes be highly subjective.”
“But to reject it
out of hand,
” the composer blustered. “And then, to add insult to injury, he didn't even offer a kill fee, while informing me that someone else had been hired—‘for the job,' as he so crassly put it.” Harrumph.

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