Showbiz, A Novel (18 page)

             
“You said as much in your interview,” she said, looking at him over the rim of her glass. “If you think you can bribe me with good bourbon and flattery, you are mistaken.”

             
Her words sounded severe, but her tone of voice almost gave him the impression she was flirting with him. She had given him the opening he needed.

             
“Interesting that you should mention bribery.”

             
Her eyes went wide but she remained silent.

             
Reilly took a breath and leaned toward her. This is it, he thought. He spoke quietly but urgently. “I have proof that you were in on a scheme to plant Kanter in the chief critic spot to guarantee good reviews for your ex-husband, Margolies. And I’m prepared to make this information public if I don’t get the job.”

             
He felt a wave of relief at having said it. He had been worried for days that he wouldn’t follow through with the blackmail. It felt good to have gotten it out. His relief was short lived, however, when he took in the look of unadulterated wrath on Candace’s face.

             
She leaned close to him and hissed, “
How dare you threaten me
?
” Having gulped down the rest of her drink, she snatched his off the tiny table between them and nearly finished it off as well. “You know nothing.”

             
He had expected that, but faced with her anger, he felt agitated himself. She was a business woman, after all, and he’d expected her to treat it like a business deal. Instead, she was clearly in a rage. He could see her hands shaking in anger.

             
He tried to keep his voice calm. “I can prove it and I will. But I don’t want to have to do that. I believe I am the right person for the critic job, and you have the power to give it to me. Though, as the new chief critic I will adhere to the highest standards of integrity. There will be no more bribery or rigged reviews.”

             
“So let me get this straight.” Her eyes were slits as she glared at him. “You’re blackmailing me to get the job, and yet you plan to bring—what was it you said?—the ‘highest standards of integrity?’” She rolled her eyes. “You’ll understand if I don’t buy a word you’re saying. Even if you could prove it, this is a contest. Readers are voting.”

             
Reilly let out an exasperated sigh. “As if you’re really going to leave it up to the readers. I wasn’t born yesterday, and neither were you.” Now he was angry. It felt good to say whatever he wanted to say. He was certain that his accusations were true and it gave him confidence.

             
“Then prove it. Right now.” She slammed her glass on the table.

             
If looks could kill… he thought. “I’m not going to do that.”

             
“That’s because you're bluffing.”

             
“Do you really want to find out?”

             
Reilly was all-in now. His lunch with his editor—ex-editor—hadn’t gone well. They planned to cut him loose since he had so publicly thrown his lot in with the
Banner
. He knew it was all or nothing for him.

             
She glared at him through narrowed eyes for a long second and finally said, “This is not the end of this conversation.”

             
But it clearly was for that evening. She grabbed her coat and purse and stalked out of the bar.

             
Reilly slumped in his chair. He was sweating even though it wasn’t warm. As he settled up the tab, he reflected on the conversation. He had said what he needed to say, and she hadn’t said no. He hadn’t needed to show his proof, and there was no record of their conversation. He was pretty sure he was safe. He just hoped she’d say yes.

             
He made his way out of the bar and into the cold, clear evening. It was still early, and, as usual these days, he found himself wondering what Scarlett was up to. He didn’t have to wonder for long because, to his surprise, she appeared just up the street.

             
“Scarlett!” He waved to her.

             
She spun around at the sound of his voice and rushed toward him with a huge grin. “Reilly? What are you doing all the way down here?”

             
“I could ask you the same thing.”

             
“I have
Swan Song
rehearsal.” She looked at him as if he should have known. Which, of course, he should have.

             
“Right, of course.” He slapped his forehead. The Manhattan Theatre Workshop was a block from where they were. “Things still going well at rehearsal?”

             
“Totally amazing,” she said, with a look of pure bliss. “Hey! Why don’t you come and watch for a bit?”

             
A full moon shone in the sky, and Scarlett looked radiant—the perfectly cast femme fatale to complete his cinematic reverie.

             
“Love to. Lead on.” He laced his fingers with hers, and they headed down the street. He had miraculously managed to avoid telling her the reason for his presence there. Thankfully, she was too consumed with her work to care.

             
They were both too consumed to notice Candace watching them from under the shadow of an awning across the street.

Scene 30

             
Margolies stalked through the doors of the Angus McIndoe restaurant and headed up to the third floor. The meeting was the last thing he needed that night, but it was not the time to lose sight of his competition. The old boys club comprised of top Broadway producers and theater owners had been meeting once a month for years, to scheme, commiserate, and otherwise keep a close eye on each other.

             
He was the last to arrive. The group had migrated to the third-floor bar at Angus a few years back, when the producer-friendly restaurant had been opened by Angus himself in 2001 with the help of several celebrity investors. Later in the evening, it would be filled with cast members from nearby shows, seeking a post-show nightcap. For now, they had the quiet upstairs space to themselves for as long they needed it.

             
“The man of the hour!” Mr. Erlander
said
as Margolies came around the corner, gesturing toward large windows that provided an eye-level view of the massive
Olympus
marquee, illuminated on the theater across the street.

             
“Just keeping up with the Jones’s,” Margolies
replied
with a nod to Erlander’s own marquee, the corner of which was also visible through the window. It was dwarfed by
Olympus
.

             
“That show will be the death of me,” Erlander
said
of his own show. The most senior member of the group at eighty years old, he had survived a career in the industry despite – or maybe because of
–
his perpetual doomsday demeanor. Crotchety and battle scarred, he never missed a gathering of his cronies.

             
Margolies took a seat at the round table with his back to the window. He didn’t want to face his marquee just then, though he could feel the glow of it beating down on the back of his neck.

             
To Margolies’ left was Mr. Stewart, severe-looking man born into fortune as heir to one of two theater-owning families who, in essence, controlled Broadway by means of real estate. Those families could arbitrarily decide whether or not to give a producer a particular theater—and securing the right theater for any given show could make or break the show’s chance for success. For years, Margolies had always gotten his first-choice theater from both families because he was a tried-and-true cash cow. Between weekly theater rent and box-office commissions, the theater owners were all too happy to have their hands in as many of his successful productions as possible.

             
To Margolies’ right was Mr. Rubin, one-time Broadway wunderkind, by then just as much of a fixture as the rest of them. He was short and stocky, and his once-dark hair was shot through with gray.

             
Mr. Franklin was next to Rubin. Franklin was a serial producer. He always had a string of shows lined up, turning them out like a factory. While Margolies respected Franklin’s fundraising prowess and the success he’d had with his “shotgun approach,” Margolies preferred to be more strategic in his own show choices.

             
He glanced around the table at the other familiar faces—another theater owner, a few other producers. He knew each of their strengths, each of their flaws. They were his enemies and his brothers. How had they all gotten so old? It seemed like yesterday they were the pioneers of Broadway; now they were the old guard. There hadn’t been a new addition to their circle in a decade, though they’d lost a few members in recent years.

             
A leggy young waitress came out from behind the bar to take their drink orders. All conversation ceased as each man undressed her with their eyes. They are about as subtle as a Times Square billboard, thought Margolies. He caught himself eyeing the coltish brunette along with the rest of them and felt foolish. Is this what we have all become?

             
Even before walking into the restaurant, he’d known how the evening would go because it was always the same. They’d rib the theater owners for the recent rent hike, they’d lament the latest union disagreements, they’d discuss legislative issues, and they’d curse this or that reviewer or upstart producer who threatened to infringe on their ivory tower. Margolies was tired of it all.

             
Rubin turned to Margolies. “I hear you’ve got the actor’s union breathing down your neck with that new wireless remote fly system?”

             
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Margolies
said
, a little too sharply. He reminded himself not to get defensive about the overwhelming challenges he was facing on
Olympus
. The group could smell fear.

             
Erlander leaned over. “What’s your capitalization these days? I’ve heard it’s up over fifty mil.” He whistled through his teeth. “Brought in some big guns for this one, huh?”

             
Interesting choice of words, thought Margolies. These guys had no idea what he had gotten himself into in order to fund the Herculean endeavor. Eager to change the subject, Margolies asked Rubin, “How’d things go in Washington, DC? Any luck with the FCC?”

             
Broadway had come late to the table in building relationships with the government, and their negligence was catching up with them. The film industry had great tax incentives for investors that had been on the books for nearly a century, and Broadway was finally fighting for equal treatment.

             
The biggest issue that had them all concerned, however, was “white space”—a technical issue that made Margolies’ head hurt but would be key to the future of the industry. With the rise of wireless
everything
,
the bandwidth that shows needed to operate wireless mics, headsets, and equipment was threatened by smart phones and handheld supercomputers that were becoming all too common.

             
“I think we made some headway,” Rubin
said
, “but we still have work to do with the FCC. Did you hear about the stunt that Stewart pulled last week?”

             
Of course Margolies had, but that didn’t stop Rubin from sharing the story again. Margolies had to admit it was a good one.

             
“Get this,” Rubin
said
. “So you know how the latest word from the FCC is that we’d still have the bandwidth we need, we’d just have deal with an occasional, brief interruption if one of our patrons walks by with a powerful smart phone or laptop?”

             
The news was met with nods and grunts.

             
“Well,” he continued, “we brought the FCC to
Phantom
last week before a show. We started up a production number, big song, all that…and half way through, we cut the wireless for thirty seconds.” He paused.

             
Everyone at the table knew exactly what that meant. The famous falling chandelier would halt in midair, the actors and orchestra microphones would become silent, making it impossible to hear anything, the cues for lights and sets would not go through. Basically the show would fall apart instantly if there was even thirty seconds of interruption in the wireless systems.

             
Margolies shivered. He hadn’t had time to focus on the legislative issues, but he was glad that his colleagues were on top of it. That could be a nightmare, particularly for the new technology that was the cornerstone of
Olympus
.