B00AZRHQKA EBOK (11 page)

H
Y
: The two of them.

L
ARRY
: About what?

H
Y
: I love you I love you I love you.

L
ARRY
: We
know
that, for Chrissake. A comedy song, maybe?

F
RED
: Unlikely.

L
ARRY
: Like
we’ve
seen him get his lumps and
she
sees it as a great victory.

F
RED
: “Darling, you were wonderful”?

H
Y
: Yeah!

L
ARRY
: No. Too on the nose.

C
HRIS
: “Win or Lose”?

L
ARRY
: (
To
H
Y
) Anything?

H
Y
: I don’t know.

F
RED
:
Could
have a shape. It’s about—the fight—win or lose no matter—and the upcoming lawsuit—win or lose—and about whatever—win or lose, up or down, hit or flop—they’re all right because they’re together.

H
Y
: What I said in the first place—I love you I love you I love you.

L
ARRY
: Want to try it?

H
Y
: Sure.

L
ARRY
: On. Courtroom scene. Like Gilbert and Sullivan.
Trial by Jury
. That’s the model. Now what saves this is that there’s not one word of spoken dialogue.

C
HRIS
: Oh, thanks.

L
ARRY
: No. What I mean is that after all these years and fifty thousand courtroom scenes—it’s usually a yawn. “Do you swear to tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?” “I do.” “State your name.” Who cares? But hardly anybody’s ever heard it
sung
before. That’s the kick. And the lights fading out and in and every time we come back—we see the courtroom from
another
angle.

I
VAN
: Was very hard to do. Was
impossible
. I did it.

L
ARRY
: You sure as hell did, Ivan. So. Claude’s testimony and two more guys. They all three identify her as Lovey Kelly of the Everleigh Club. Things look bad. Now on come the Everleigh sisters themselves—with their girls. The big cantata. They all swear they’ve never seen Nora before. Don’t know her. Do know Claude and the other two. Lousy lays, all three. Kinky types. Finally barred, say the Everleigh sisters. Big fuss. The Everleigh sisters with their big red book—names of all clients. Want to hear them? No! Objection! A new witness. Ginny.
Uh
-uh! She heard them all plotting. Being coached. She was, too. But she has quit. Gone straight now. But can’t lie. Went to her minister, who advised her to tell the truth. How can they take the word of a bunch of whores? Uproar. Fade-out. Fade-in. Really looks bad for Nora. Now. Surprise witness. “State your name.” “My name is Lovey Kelly. Worked for The Everleigh Sisters. Know Claude and the others. Kooks. Refused to have anything to do with them—so they got mad.” “Prove you are Lovey Kelly.” Birth certificate. Grammar-school records. Auto license. Mother and father are in court. Summons. Jury dances out. Jack and Nora. Jury dances in. We win. Big sum. Celebration. The twelve men dance with the twelve hookers. Judge with The Everleigh Sisters. Back to the theatre. Dressing room. Nora and Jack getting ready. Nora: “But how did they do it? Who was she? Who is she? Is she me?” Jack: “Honey, when you’ve got the answers, don’t ask the questions. In Chicago—The Everleigh Sisters are a power. They could produce George Washington if they had to.” Nora: “And they may
have
to before we’re through. I don’t know. I have a feeling I’ll never get to Heaven.” Jack: “But, Lovey—you’re in Heaven now.” And the revolve—
and
the fanfare—and the finale and they sing “Shine On, Harvest Moon.”

H
Y
: Or whatever.

A
RT
: Great show. Greatest show of the year.

L
ARRY
: All right. That’s it for today. Many thanks. See you all tomorrow. Oh—by the way—tomorrow I want to hear Act One from
you
, Ivan. And Act Two, Alicia.

A
LICIA
: I’m expecting to be in bed with laryngitis.

A
RT
: Laryngitis! I’ll kill that Greek.

L
ARRY
: Hy, Fred. Can you stay a few minutes?

H
Y
: Sure.

F
RED
: You bet.

Everyone left, except Larry, me, Art, Hy and Fred. I hoped they were not going to begin that interpolated-songs argument again. It had come up every three or four days and was invariably acrimonious and bitter and ultimately nasty. My hopes were dashed as Larry began.

“Hy, let me ask you something candidly.”

“Go ahead.”

“Having been through the whole show in outline,” said Larry. “Now that we’re beginning to get a feel of the shape and color and flavor of it all—don’t you see how desperately we need the authenticity of the two Norworth numbers?”

“Candidly, you said.”

“Yes.”

“Candidly, no.”

“What about you, Fred?”

“Me. I don’t know. I’m of two minds.”

“Yes, but only one of them counts,” said Hy. “The one that works with me.”

“I have nightmares,” said Larry, “about the pasting we’re going to take from critics who identify those two songs with the Nora Bayes story.”

“Fuck 'em!” said Hy, getting hot sooner than usual.

“We’re hardly in a position to do that,” said Larry.

“Talk sense!” Art yelled. “If you’re going to talk at all! And somethin’ else. I’m gettin’ goddamn sick and tired of this discussion. How come we left it till now?”

“Mistakes,” said Larry. “We’ve all made our share. I was sure I’d be able to convince the boys once we got under way. You, Art, made a great mistake signing a contract with them that specified no interpolations…”

(Note: I found out later, much later, what had happened. Art is a real contract reader. He has read, Clay assures me, every contract to do with this show including the ones with the scene builders, the musicians, the understudies. When he read the Dramatists Guild contract with Hy and Fred, he of course read the clause about interpolations—but did not know what the word meant and was ashamed to ask. So he thought, what the hell, it’s a standard contract. All printed. Boiler plate. Not a rider, not a special condition. So he signed it. It was only later, when the arguments began and Hy invoked the clause, that Art realized the blunder he had made. But it was too late. He had to brazen it out.)

“I thought the way
you
did, that they’d be reasonable.”

“Don’t ever count on anyone in this business being reasonable, Art,” said Larry.

“Reasonable!” shouted Hy. “What the fuck’s 'reasonable’ got to do with anything? This is
me
you’re talking about. My
work
. My whole goddamn career. What kind of asshole credit is it if it says 'Music by Hy Balaban, Lyrics by Fred Monroe’—then '“Shine On, Harvest Moon” and “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” by Jack Norworth and Nora Bayes’? Jesus! It sounds like we couldn’t hack it or something.”

“Not at all,” said Larry. “It sounds like since the show is
about
Nora Bayes and Jack Norworth we’re including the two numbers that have always been identified with them.”

“I’m going to give you two
better
numbers,” said Hy.

“That’s not the
point
,” said Larry. “They won’t be the same.”

Art broke in. “What about the title of the show, even?
Shine On, Harvest Moon
.”

“This may come as a surprise to you, Mr. Clune,” said Hy. “But it so happens that I
know
the title of the show.”

“But going with you, we’ll have no title song.”

“So what?” said Fred. “It’s an old-fashioned notion anyway. Most shows don’t have title songs anymore.”

“Some do,” mumbled Art, and was silent.

“But not
Annie
,” said Hy.

“Or
A Chorus Line,”
said Fred.

Hy.
“South Pacific.”

Fred.
“The King and I.”

Hy.
“Funny Girl.”

Fred.
“The Wiz.”

Hy. “
Pippin
.”

Fred.
“Grease.”

Hy.
“Porgy and Bess.”

Fred.
“Pal Joey.”

Hy.
“The Music Man.”

Fred.
“West Side Story.”

Hy.
“Gypsy.”

Fred.
“Ballroom.”

There was a tired pause, then Art chirped up, brightly.

“My Fair Lady!”
he said.

I was about to laugh, but held it in as I saw the look Larry gave him.

No one said anything for a time but the atmosphere was tense.

“And talking about—about
Funny Girl,”
said Hy.

“What
about
it?” asked Larry.

“Fanny Brice. So did you hear Streisand sing 'My Man’?”

“Or 'Second Hand Rose’?” asked Fred.

“Or any
one
of her numbers?”

“In my opinion—she
should
have,” said Larry.

Hy laughed. “Oh, brother. I guess you wouldn’t settle for the hit
they
were, huh?”

“Gladly,” said Larry. “But that’s got nothing to do with it.”

“It’s got
everything
to do!” shouted Hy.

“Hold it down, Hy,” said Larry. “I can hear you.”

“The title,” said Art.

“Oh, for Christ’s sweet sake!” Hy yelled. “Will you shut up about the title?
Change
the fucking title! Who cares about a title?”

“When they did the
movie
of
Funny Girl
,” said Larry, “and Styne wasn’t in control anymore, they sure in hell
did
use 'My Man’—and it was
electrifying
.”

“That’s right,” agreed Hy. “It was.”

“So?”

“So when
you
do the movie of
this
—put any goddamn thing you want. Who gives a shit what’s in a movie anyhow?”

“Would you do
this
for me, Hy?” asked Larry.

“What?”

“Let her sing 'Shine On’ for a couple of run-throughs? Maybe you’ll begin to feel what I feel.”

“No chance.”

“As a favor?”

“I don’t owe you any favors.”

“As a professional courtesy.”

“As a professional courtesy, I’d like you to get off my ass.”

“Boy—I heard you were stubborn—but I didn’t know
anyone
could be
this
stubborn.”

“You heard, huh? You want to know what I heard about
you
?”

“No, thanks. I can imagine.”

“I heard you don’t know your ass from a hard rock about putting on a musical—and that you come up with a bit once in a while because you keep the kid close. Russ.”

“Really?” Larry smiled, but he had gone pale.

“Who’d you hear
that
from?” asked Art. “Russ?”

“I move we adjourn,” said Larry.

“Not yet,” said Hy. “I’ve got one more thing I want to say. It’s this. I don’t want this goddamn subject to come up
again
. I’ve fucking
had
it. I’ve written a great score and if you people don’t like it—if you don’t think it’s enough—I’ll tell you what you can do. You can give it
back
to me. I’ll return your advance. Then you can go shopping and that’s it. Also. Go fuck yourselves. Or each other. But stop trying to fuck
me
!”

He walked out, slowly.

Art looked at Fred. “That go for you, too?”

Fred was clearly miserable. “Jesus. I don’t know. He’s an excitable guy. He’s my partner. What can I do? I’ve got to stick with him. Also—there’s a big difference between him and me. He’s loaded and I’m not.”

“His
wife
, you mean,” said Larry.

“What’s the difference? It’s all the same. He’s got her in his pocket.”

Larry spoke. “It sounds more like he’s in
her
pocket.”

“So he can
afford
to blast,” said Fred. “I wish
I
could. See you later, huh?”

“Yes,” said Larry. “Take it easy.”

Art and Larry and I sat there for a while.

“Get me some coffee, Midge,” said Larry. “Would you, please?”

“Me, too,” said Art.

I went off to get the coffee from the chorus urn downstairs.

When I got back, Art was sitting on the edge of his chair, leaning toward Larry.

“—from where millions? Are you sure?”

“Thanks, Midge.”

“Thanks.”

“If you mean have I seen the millions in a box in their home,” said Larry, “no. But hell, the way they live. The houses: in New York, in Martha’s Vineyard, in Nassau. And an apartment in Paris. Oh, yes—and a condominium in Beverly Hills for when he goes out there a few times a year. Rachel doesn’t like hotel food or restaurant food. She’s a true gourmet.”

“She looks it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Too healthy,” said Art. “I
hate
healthy-looking people. They’re always so goddamn smug.”

“Money is power,” said Larry. “I just made that up. Make a note, Midge. I don’t want to forget any of my great thoughts.”

“Don’t be fooled by front,” said Art. “People think I’m a hell of a lot richer than I am. Know why? Because that’s what I
want
them to think. Also, I’ve noticed something. The
really
rich don’t spread it around so much. Where did she
get
the dough?”

“Her first two husbands. Both tycoons. Both died.”

“That’s what they do, tycoons. They die.”

“So she’s twice a rich widow,” said Larry.

“The husbands. On the old side?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Figures. She’s probably one of those.”

“Of what?”

“Plans it. Hooks 'em, then balls 'em to death.”

Larry laughed. “Well, she’s not going to ball our Hy to death. He’s well known for his prowess.”