B00AZRHQKA EBOK (27 page)

“I have no opinion,” I said. “But I’ll take a guess.”

“Yes?”

“Off.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not his—not in style or story or character.”

“There’s something he doesn’t know, this wiseass, that if he takes his name off—he can’t collect royalties. That’s what the Guild says—and don’t you tell him or I’ll murder you. They made a rule once—it was when directors were always trying to get a piece of the action, and writers were giving it to them. Then the Guild made a rule: If you get royalties, you’ve got to get credit, too. The whole thing stopped. Because writers, see—they care more about credit than money. That’s why they’re mostly schmucks…So if you’re right about Bowman, that’s great for our side—I’ll take his name off, sure. Only he’s got to put the request in writing. Then I’ll have Dan rewrite it in legal lingo, and invoke the no-credit-no-money clause—only he won’t know what it is—and get him to sign it and he’s out. Keep all this to yourself.
Very
to yourself. Are you going to see him later?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do. Catch him on the way out and ask him out for a drink. He took you to dinner, after all. You pay. Put it on your swindle sheet. The Barclay bar. None of our gang goes there, do they?”

“I don’t know.”

“How could they afford it, the poor bastards? They’re all so underpaid! Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. What I want is a quick reading on his reactions. This could mean a bundle. So do what you can. You won’t be sorry. I can be generous if necessary. I’ll wait for your call, Midge.”

“Call me Snookyookums,” I said.

I went out and walked. I think better when I walk. I wondered what would happen if I walked straight to the hotel, checked out, and took a train to New York. Or a plane. Or a bus. Or hitchhiked. I was being drawn into a morass of lies and double-dealing and deception. “Oh what a tangled web we weave/When first we practice to deceive.” What would I miss if I blew this whole thing off? I checked off the various items. The pay. The experience. The excitement. The education. And of the people—whom would I regret leaving behind? The answer, when I finally achieved it, surprised me: Larry and Gene Bowman. Gene Bowman. But you hardly know him. Yes, but I want to know him better. A complex man, the best kind. Funny and sad. Serious and playful. Mature and childish. And, in a strange, esoteric way—sexually attractive. No, not attractive. Magnetic. He had said nothing remotely flirtatious. Done nothing. (The clothes change? A joke.) He had not touched me in any way. Not my arm. Not helping me in and out of the car. Not my back as we left the restaurant (a first, that!). No. He had not touched me. Why not? I began to resent the fact, to feel insulted. This gentleman junk can be carried too far, damn it. Well, it was all new. There was time. I started back to the theatre. What would he be like, lying there stripped on the enormous bed in 2110? Would the gray hair on his head be matched by gray hair on his chest? Elsewhere? Yes, of course. But why should that be so arousing? Why were my nipples hardening? and pressing against my bra? Why was I wearing a bra?

I reached the theatre, went into the Ladies’ Room, took it off, and put it into my bag.

I went up to the auditorium to watch the last half hour of the show. All there at the back, standing. Larry, Alicia, Ivan, Art, and the rest. The house was sold out.

I located the back of Gene’s head and watched it. A joke from the stage. It moved. A number ended. He applauded. Still it seemed to me that the way he shifted from time to time indicated that he was either bored or restless. As the finale began, I moved to stand at the top of the aisle where his seat was. Art saw me move, patted my behind as I passed him, winked, and gave me a thumbs up. Did he know it was a phallic gesture, indicating a ready erection?

I kept my eye on Gene as he made his way up the aisle, trying to get an advance clue. He was “nonchalanting it”—as I had heard Phil Rizzuto once say describing a catch by Rod Carew.

“Hello,” I said as he saw me.

“Good seat,” he said.

(That’s bad, I thought.)

“How about a drink?” I asked.

“By all means. I could use one.”

(Worse, I thought.)

“But I’d like to see Larry Gabel first. Is that possible?”

“Hold it,” I said. “Wait right here. I’ll catch him before he goes back.”

I pushed through the crowd, making instant enemies, and got to Larry just in time.

“Got a minute, Larry?”

“For you, yes.”

“No. For Gene Bowman.”

“Really? He’s here?”

“Come with me.”

There was less difficulty getting back as the crowd was thinning out swiftly.

“Gene Bowman,” I said. “Larry Gabel.”

“Delighted,” said Gene.

“I’m honored,” said Larry.

“I wanted to say, for what it’s worth, that you’ve done a splendid job—considering the material you’ve been given to work with.”

“Thank you. It’s worth a great deal coming from you, Mr. Bowman.”

“Let’s make it Gene and Larry, shall we? This is
'showbiz,’
they tell me. Moreover, I’m not that old and you’re not that young.”

Larry smiled. “Suits me. About the material. Naturally, we’re working to improve it. And now that you’re here, I should think we’ve got a much better chance.”

“I’m not sure. There’s the question of
modus operandi.
We’ll see. For the moment, I merely want to compliment you. Again.”

They shook hands. Larry went down the side aisle to the passdoor.

“Ready?” asked Gene.

“You bet. Any special place you’d like?”

“How about one with naked women? They got any of those in Philly?”

(Uh-uh. It begins. There’ll be a dirty joke within the hour, no doubt.)

“Not a one.”

He snapped his fingers in annoyance and said, “Damn!”

“But I think I know one with naked
men,”
I said. “Would that do?”

“How about the staid ol’ Barclay?”

“Why not?”

We walked to The Barclay in silence. Clearly, he was thinking or cogitating or ruminating. Whatever. I thought it wise to say nothing until he did. We stopped for a red light. He looked at me and smiled.

“Thinking?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “Digesting.”

“Of course.”

The light changed, we walked again. He
still
hadn’t touched me. I’d better change fragrance, I thought.

At The Barclay, he asked, “Where’s the Men’s?”

I pointed it out.

He said, “Chivas and soda for me if they have it. If not, J and B.”

I went into the small bar, ordered his drink (they had Chivas) and the same for myself and went to the Ladies’ Room. I considered putting my bra back on, decided against it.

He rose as I approached the table. The drinks arrived. He raised his glass, said, “Success,” clinked it to mine, and we drank.

“Shall we?” he asked.

“What?”

“To the subject? That’s what we’re here for, I believe.”

“If you like.”

“It’s a tragedy,” he said seriously.

“In what way?”

“It could be so great, and it’s so not…I don’t claim to know much about the theatre—it’s a mighty special craft—but I know one hell of a lot about Nora, and she’s not up there, not for a second. And if no Nora, there’s no show. It doesn’t matter how many great numbers you have—the score, by the way, is much better than I thought.
Much.
I was wrong…The
look
of it—overwhelming. I must write the people responsible—or better yet, meet them tomorrow.” He took a stack of three-by-five filing cards from his breast pocket and made notes. “Set, costumes—works of
art.
All the players. And the girls—delicious. But no Nora. It’s a great beefless beef stew. The surprise—to me at least—is how that brainless, heartless story they’re telling up there doesn’t seem to matter that much. The fact that it’s a musical, do you suppose? So it’s artificial, anyhow. People don’t sing at each other in life, so this isn’t life—it’s a show. I thought I’d
hate
the story—now that it’s been so truncated and so stuffed with absolute hogwash—but I didn’t care. Mine wouldn’t have made all that difference. But
Nora.
Where’s Nora? Our little Miss Star could do it, I suppose. I don’t know. If She had it to do. She’s all right—having a vicarious love affair with the audience. But She is indubitably SHE. I haven’t seen her since Vegas two years ago and—well, hell? I thought I was
back
there. She works and charms and sings and flirts and it’s all fine and it’s a waste. As it stands—the show is, will be, a failure…Shouldn’t you have taken all this down? Aren’t you supposed to report back? You want to get your book out and I’ll say it all again? I don’t mind.”

“No, Gene Bowman,” I said. “I’ll remember. How could I forget? You’ve put into words what I’ve been thinking for a month but couldn’t express.”

“But that’s my
business,
Midge Maghakian,” he said.

“I know. Still…”

We were looking at each other, trying to communicate more than we were prepared to put into words. His gaze shifted from my face to my chest.

“Hmm,” he said. “I see
you’ve
changed, too.”

“Yes,” I said. “I feel so much more liberated.”

He looked at me again. “I’m all for it. I walk up and down Michigan Avenue these days feeling grateful to progress. We have loads of lovely girls in Chicago—and the new way of things makes them even lovelier. I’m a feminist, can you tell? I’m for women. And the E.R.A. And beyond. Why aren’t they—you—more militant, more active, more demanding? More women than men in the last census—well over a hundred million.”

“Too many,” I said.

“It’s the theme of
Nightingale for Sale
! A girl making it in a man’s world. Degraded by men, turned into an object for hire, a chattel, a slave, and by the fact of her personality and the strength of her determination
not
to be any of those things—she goes from girl to woman to, by God, lady. And we should see it—what’s more—feel it. That’s the great Nora. What you’ve got up there now is a showbiz cutie, a—to use a least-favorite word—
performer.”

“Would you do me a favor?” I asked. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Not me. As someone said to me today—'Who the hell are
you?’
I couldn’t answer that question. I’m still moving from girl to woman—”

“Keep going,” he said.

“What I meant to say—trying to say—is, would you be willing to do the
show
a favor?
Yourself
a favor? After all, it’s your show, too. Your name is on it.”

“For the moment,” he said.

Should I? Do I dare warn him? Careful.

“What’s the favor?”

“What you just said here—to me—would you write it out? Let me have it to give him? Maybe he’d see it and if he did would you be willing to work with Larry and Chris and fix it?”

“Waiter!”

He circled a finger over our tiny table, signaling another round.

“Would
you?” I asked again.

“Only if requested to. Speak when spoken. The world hates a buttinski.”

“But it’s yours, in a way.”

“A technicality.”

“Would you talk to Larry?”

“Of course. But what good would that do?”

“I don't know.”

“Has he any clout? Any authority?”

“No, but he can be damned persuasive.”

“And what about this Chris guy?” he asked.

“He’s a secretary. Like me. Only he doesn’t take shorthand, so that makes him a writer.”

Gene laughed, lightly. “My oh my. I hope I never get on the wrong side of
you.
You’re tough.”

“I hope so. It’s a tough world.”

The drinks had been served without our noticing them until now.

“Well, well, what have we here?” he asked.

“Ambrosia,” I said. “Never had it before.”

“Stick with me, kid,” he said, “I’ll show you the goods of life.”

“All right.”

“One of the reasons I’d like to score for big dough—I’d know what to do with it. Rich people. I can’t tell you how many I know. Sad folk, most of them. Fearful. There’s something out of joint where the poor know how to use money and the rich don’t.”

“Some
do.”

“A few. I’m talking by and large. I know some very rich people who are nice; and some rich people who are very nice; but no very rich people who are very nice.”

“Will you? Help the show?”

“I just arrived, dear. Let me think. Sage and pontifical as I seem—I’m not sure I’m sure.”

“I
am.”

“Yes—but in the words of Our Leader—who the hell are
you?
If I’m to get involved—it has to be with conviction. I
could
turn out to be a specious fraud. Further. It may be that what I want done couldn’t be done for the stage.”

“Anything
can be done for the stage!” I said wildly.

The waiter came over and said, “Will there be anything else? The bar’ll be closing in a few minutes.”

“Yes,” said Gene. “Two doubles.”

“Not for me,” I said.

“All right, then,” said Gene. “One single and one triple.”

“Just for you, please,” I said. “No more for me.”

“One no more,” said Gene. “And one quadruple.”

The Greek waiter looked confused. Gene held up four fingers.

“Four,” said the waiter. “Four Chivas.”

“Right.”

“Soda?”

“Soda.”

“Thank you.”

He went off.

“Too much?” I asked.

“Certainly,” he replied. “What’s wrong with too much? I should think a nice Armenian girl like you would know that great Saroyan song: 'All I Want Is All There Is and Then Some.’”

“I’m only
half
Armenian.”

“Well, then. You ought to know half the song.”

The waiter. The check. I reached for it.

“No, no,” said Gene.

“Art’s paying.”

“Yes yes!” said Gene.

I signed the check, adding a $5.00 tip.

“Thank you, lady.”

He went off.

“There you are,” said Gene. “You’re a lady.”

“A lot he knows.”

I finished my drink—was it the second, or third?—in a gulp and looked at the four filled shot glasses lined up in front of Gene like a squad.

“I’ll take one of those,” I said.