Showbiz, A Novel (19 page)

             
“You have to beat this, Stewart,” Franklin
said
.

             
“I’m working on it. You know you’re all welcome to join me in Washington,” Stewart
said
grimly. And around the table, the men who drove one of New York’s biggest economic engines nodded in agreement.

             
Margolies leaned over to Rubin. “Anything new since last month? What’s on your radar?”

             
Rubin had an eye for off-beat new musicals. He’d transferred several unlikely musicals from hole-in-the-wall theaters, and turned an impressive majority of them into commercial hits, but he hadn’t done much in the past few years.

             
“I could ask you the same thing,” Rubin
replied
. “Don’t tell me you’ve had your nose so deep in your rock-star extravaganza that you’ve missed what’s happening in your very own office.”

             
Rubin eyed Franklin and Erlander with a sly smile. They returned his looks, well aware of exactly where Rubin was going.

             
“What the hell are you talking about?” Margolies wanted to punch someone but kept his calm. Not that a burst of his temper would surprise anyone at that table.

             
Franklin clapped Margolies on the back with his withered hand and said, “You’re losing your touch, old man.”

             
Erlander let out a little giggle. “This is too good.”

             
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourselves at my expense, gentlemen,” Margolies
said
as the waitress came around with their drinks. Scotch, scotch, martini, water for Margolies. As she leaned over his shoulder, he felt her lean in just a little too close and catch his eye when he turned his head. That cheered him up for a second. Clearly an actress, the waitress knew power when she saw it. He raked his fingers through his still thick silver hair, grateful that he could attract a girl like that even at his age. Something his colleagues couldn’t say for themselves.

             
“Does a little show called
Swan Song
sound familiar?” Rubin
asked
.

             
It
did
sound familiar, but Margolies couldn’t place it. “Sure…” He was noncommittal. “Why?”

             
“You mean
Swanee Song
, more like,” Franklin
said
, waving his fingers in a non-politically correct minstrel show reference.

             
“Have you asked your hot little associate what she’s been doing on her evenings and weekends?”

             
It suddenly dawned on him.
Swan Song
. Scarlett’s pet project. She had mentioned it a couple of times, but he hadn’t paid any attention.

             
“Right. Scarlett’s project. How do you know about it?” Margolies
asked
.

             
The men passed wide-eyed glances between themselves.

             
“Everyone knows about it, old man,” Franklin
said
.

             
“My sources at the Manhattan Theatre Workshop tell me it’s brilliant. And can you believe it was a last-minute substitute? Crazy business,” Rubin
said
. “I tried to option it myself, but your little Scarlett is keeping it to herself. Apparently there’s money there. Who knew?”

             
Margolies mind was spinning. What was going on? How could Scarlett’s little nothing of a project have caught the attention of Rubin and Franklin and Erlander. The world didn’t work that way. At least, his world didn’t.

             
“Excuse me. I have someplace to be.” He abruptly shoved his chair away from the table.

             
That was met with laughter. He didn’t care. Maybe it is time I quit the group anyway, he thought. What good are they? As he turned the corner to the stairs, he could see them all enjoying a laugh at his expense, under the glow of his
Olympus
marquee.

Scene 31

             
“What took you so long?” Candace
snapped
as she met him at the door of her brownstone. She had called Margolies before she even left the Bowery Hotel bar.

             
“Producer’s Association meeting at the Angus. I got here as soon as I could,” Margolies
replied
, taking off his coat and throwing it over the back of the couch. He took a seat in the cushy leather arm chair. He remembered the day they bought that particular chair, all those years ago. He had been overloaded with new musical submissions and had wanted the perfect chair to set up shop in the living room and weed through the scripts, searching for the perfect shows that would allow him to launch his producing career.

             
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d read a script. Scarlett did that for him, and his other projects came through connections and commissions. They were stunt casting, star vehicles like
Olympus
. There had been some good scripts, back in the day. He wondered what ever happened to those scripts, those writers.

             
His reminiscing was cut short by Candace, who had resumed her pacing. Watching her agitation made him tired.

             
“Ok, Candy, what’s going on?”

             
“I have bad news and worse news. Which do you want first?”

             
Margolies sighed. “Just tell me.”

             
“Our secret’s out.”

             
Margolies sat up. “What are you talking about?” He wondered if Candace was just being overdramatic. When they first put their plan into place all those years back, any little thing could spook her. She was constantly paranoid they’d be found out. It was part of what had led to the demise of their relationship.

             
“You heard me. One of my finalists, Reilly Mitchell...”

             
“That gossip columnist kid?”

             
“That’s the one.”

             
“He knows something?”

             
“Evidently. He cornered me in the bar tonight and claimed he had proof. Said that I needed to give him the job or he’d go public.”

             
This is for real, thought Margolies. The wheels starting to turn in his head. First the news about
Swan Song
,
and now this. This is turning into a really bad night. He narrowed his eyes. “What proof?”

             
“He didn’t say.” She was pacing like a mad woman. She hadn’t even touched the drink she’d poured for herself. “What the hell are we going to do?”

             
“You’re going to calm down, and we’re going to work this out.”

             
“Calm down? Calm
down
? My career is on the line. Your career is on the line. Our reputations...” She was starting get shrill.

             
Margolies got up and took her by the shoulders. “Candace, we’ll figure this out, but you have got to calm down.” He guided her over to the couch.

             
“I knew this was going to happen!” she said with wild eyes. “I told you. I knew it!” Margolies put her drink in her hand.

             
“We’ll figure this out, Candy. Haven’t I always figured it out before?” he said, trying to calm her. In the meantime, his mind was racing.

             
He knew he should be as worried as Candace was, but he just couldn’t believe that some quasi-celebrity columnist like Reilly with no skin in the game could really bring him down. Margolies was way beyond that. Blackmail seemed petty in the face of his
Olympus
problems. Nonetheless, it would have to be dealt with.

             
Candace picked up her drink and watched him expectantly. He considered the situation.

             
“So we’re being blackmailed,” he said aloud. Now it was his turn to pace. “Blackmailed by some two-bit journalist who wants the top critic job. A nobody—”

             
“He’s not exactly a nobody—”

             
“A
nobody
! And he thinks he can beat us at our own game.”

             
He suddenly had an idea. It was their game, his game. And no one played it better than him. He smiled.

             
“You’ve either had a great idea or you’re losing your mind. How can you be smiling?” asked Candace, observing the look on his face.

             
It was good, really good. He went back to his chair and looked at Candace over his steepled fingers, feeling almost giddy.

             
“Let’s think about this, shall we?” he said. She looked at him blankly. “This guy wants the job, and he’s willing to stoop to blackmail to get it.” He paused as she nodded. “We want a critic we can keep under our thumb. Someone who won’t mind operating just outside of the truth. Someone who understands things like, say, blackmail. It seems we’ve found our guy!” he ended triumphantly.

             
“But this is a contest. It’s supposed to be fair.”

             
“It was never going to be fair, Candace. We talked about this,” he snapped, registering the fact that she had actually thought she could get away with not rigging the contest. He’d deal with that later. It didn’t matter now that events had turned in his favor again.

             
“Right. Okay.” She actually squirmed.

             
“Let’s meet with this Reilly Mitchell. It just may be his lucky day.” And mine, thought Margolies. Reilly had no idea who he was messing with. But, that would be Reilly’s problem. Funny how things worked out. “Not this week, though. Make him sweat a little. The ball’s in our court.”
             
A thought occurred to him. “Was that the bad news, or the worse news?”

             
“Right, I almost forgot. Don’t you wonder at all where he got his so-called proof?”

             
“He’s a journalist. Those idiots—no offense, Candy—sometimes get lucky and uncover something.”

             
“Or get lucky under the covers is more like it,” she said.

             
“What are you talking about?”

             
“Let’s just say I had the pleasure of meeting your little office girl at the reception last week.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. She was clearly enjoying it.

             
“Scarlett.”

             
“Whatever. I had just assumed she was keeping
your
bed warm,” she said. He glared at her. “But it seems she has another boyfriend.”

             
“Get to the point.” He stood up.

             
“Reilly Mitchell.”

             
Scarlett and Reilly Mitchell? Margolies saw red.

Scene 32

             
Scarlett checked the time. She had been in the Jackman Theater for ten straight hours, for the third day in a row. And yet they had barely gotten through three scenes that night. She flexed her aching fingers, tired from the copious notes she’d been taking about everything from scene transitions to costume adjustments to dramaturgical fixes. Scaling Mount
Olympus
would be easier than mounting this show, thought Scarlett.

             
At least she hadn’t needed to worry about Cupid. Since he’d spent the majority of the day strapped into a remote-controlled harness, flying around the theater, his flirtations with Scarlett had been relegated to leers and lewd gestures from above, which she could safely avoid, sitting in the darkened audience well below his grasp.

             
The show was really starting to come together. Though Scarlett preferred her musicals with a little more heart and a little less spectacle, she couldn’t fault Margolies’ vision of
Olympus
. Even with only piano accompaniment—the orchestra wouldn’t be called in until later in the week—the songs were stunning. The choreography performed by the top-notch cast, in dazzling costumes, was truly breathtaking.

             
Scarlett had miraculously managed to avoid unnecessary run-ins with Margolies as well. The activity at the theater had reached a fever pitch. Margolies and Scarlett were more or less taking turns running between the theater and the office, conveniently ensuring, as a result, that they were rarely in the same place at the same time, other than for production meetings with various other players. That suited Scarlett just fine, as she had neither the time nor inclination to get any more humiliating beratings from her boss.