The Best Revenge (2 page)

*

Louie would have spoken to me even if Charlotte were still in the room. The first time she ever caught me communing with him, she didn't point a finger to her temple as any other secretary would have. “It's okay,” she said, “Joan of Arc heard voices, why shouldn't you?”

I buzzed her.

“Now what?” she asked.

“There's nothing in my in box except
Variety
.”

“You want me to send you one of the letters I'm trying to type?”

“Where's my mail?”

“Censored. You don't want to read any of it. I'll put them in your autobiography file. What did the process server have?”

“I threw it in the wastebasket.”

“I'll fish it out and send it over to Ezra. When you leave. Which is how soon?”

“Are they gone?”

“I'm all alone. Except for you.”

Her first year here Charlotte had said to me, “I like your hair,” a sentence that hung in the air between us for a week before I learned she was as wedlocked as I am.

I opened my office door a crack. How nice, just Charlotte typing away. I announced, “I'm heading for the theater to catch the rehearsal.”

“Call Ezra,” said Charlotte without taking her eyes off her work.

“I've got nothing more to say to him.”

“He's trying to help, Ben.”

“The only way he can help is to get rich quick and lend me the money.” With the tip of my forefinger I slit my throat. “I am up to here with advice.”

“I guess that includes my reminders as to who you're supposed to call.”

“Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, I don't need reminders. I need money.”

Charlotte the Kind stopped typing and put the palms of her hands together. “If I had the money, Ben, you know I'd give it to you.”

“You'd be crazy.”

“Then why should anyone else invest? Who believes in you more than I do? Besides Jane.”

Obeisance to the wife.

“I am not a religion. I don't want to be believed in. This play is a business proposition like all the others.”

“It isn't, Ben.”

“You read it?”

“You didn't hire me as a critic.”

“You always criticize me, I don't see why you stop at a mere play.”

“I had to see why everyone is saying no.”

“Well?”

“I kind of liked it.”

“You did?”

“In fact I thought it was pretty great.”

I went around to Charlotte's preserve, her side of the desk. Her hands quickly went to her typewriter keys for safety.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Don't scream.” I kissed the side of her face.

“What do I know,” she said. “Alex the Pencil hates it.”

“I don't want accountants reading plays.”

“He didn't read it. He just did the numbers.”

“I'm going down to the theater.”

“Call Ezra first.”

“I'll take the kiss back if you say that once more.”

Her right hand left the typewriter just long enough to wave her fingers good-bye.

“Farewell,” I said.

Charlotte stopped typing. “Some of these are sure to come through, Ben.”

In the unlikely event they all came through for a unit each, it would still leave us sixty yards from a touchdown and not a prospect in sight. Sending out the letters gave Charlotte hope. Hope is the immune system's first line of defense. Why should I interfere?

I walked past out-of-towners pointing at the marquees, snapping future memories, exciting each other about actually being on the Great White Way in person at last. Be warned, I thought, this place will snow you blind.

Broadway isn't Broadway anymore. I was down to letters nobody would answer.

Last night Jane said, “We need to be candid now.”

Oh, come on now, Jane, I said, you were candid from the word go. Eighteen years ago you said, “Ben, I'm going to rescue you from all those clustering females because you're an energy machine, a human rocket, you get things done, and between your fits of temper you can be a vastly entertaining man.”

That was then. What she said last night was, “Ben, stop clowning and pay attention. We need to be candid about money.”

Money? Oh yes, the ultimate goad, spur, stimulus, incitement, the fundamental fuel in the drive to power. I remember it well.

Good women avoid weak men. Weakening men.

I almost tripped over Mustard, the legless wonder on his skateboard platform, cap held out. The
Times
said he took in more than a thousand dollars a day in good weather. Maybe he could give me a course in successful begging.

“How are you today, Mr. Riller.”

I put my dollar in his cap. “Morning to you,” I said and turned the corner.

I slowed my walk to the pace of my brain.

The last time I addressed cast and crew was when I jumped up on stage to announce a record number of theater parties for
Love or Marriage,
which meant they'd all be working for a long time. If I tried jumping up there today I'd break a leg, right, God?

Sorry to interrupt, everybody, I've got an announcement. We're broke. And you're out of a job, effective last payday.

Equity would want my scalp.

The public phones around Times Square double as urinals, but there was one free and I closeted the noise out and the smell in.

When Ezra got on, I told him what I was about to do.

“That's suicide,” he said. “We need to talk this over.”

“I'm entitled to close one play.”

“It's not that simple, Ben. You've spent escrow money.”

“You never complained about that before.”

“Before, I saw more money coming in. I'm not a criminal lawyer, Ben. Spending escrow could mean—don't hang up.”

“You're a mind reader, Ezra.”

“You can't just walk into the rehearsal and close the show down. You've got to post notices. I've been trying to get to you for two days. That fellow from Chicago called me. What's his name?”

“Sam Glenn.”

“That's the one. Why's he calling me?”

“Your name is on the papers, Ezra.”

“He wants a certified check returning his investment. He says you
wouldn't take his phone calls. Now he wants you to fly out to Chicago for a talk.”

“How the hell can I do that in the middle of this?”

“That Glenn is not a nice man.”

“I've known that since high school.”

“He could be real trouble.”

“Compared to what?”

“He's threatened…I need to talk to you, Ben, before—”

“I do anything stupid.”

“I'll grab a cab and meet you at the theater. Don't talk to anyone before I get there.”

“I don't want you at the theater.”

“I'll meet you wherever you say, only swear you won't talk to the cast first. Promise?”

“What the fuck can I promise, I can't keep the hundred promises I already made,” I said and hung the receiver on the black wishbone.

Why should I call Ezra? Won't everything he'll say be predictable? What I needed for a lawyer now was a gorilla, not a friend.

Two more blocks to the theater.

If in doubt, blow up the ship.

Does the captain get away in a lifeboat? Isn't he supposed to go down with the ship?

*

In the theater, the sea of seats rippled downward, empty except for two in the fifth row occupied by the director and his boy. I sat down in back. The seat creaked.

Mitch craned his head around. He got up abruptly—not his usual inconspicuous way—and headed for the stage. He whispered something to the stage manager, who quickly came down the side steps to the auditorium and slid into Mitch's seat, a way of telling the cast he was watching the run-through in Mitch's place.

Mitch stole back to where I was. “Let's go outside, Ben, so we won't disturb the cast.”

“Later.”

“Not later, Ben. Now.”

Once we were clear of the auditorium, I said, “Looks good, the five seconds I saw of it.”

“Ben,” Mitch said, “the word is bad. They say the investors aren't in, that the partnership can't close. Don't shit me, Ben. If it's gotten to the cast, it must be all over town.”

I was trying to think of a lie when I heard Louie's voice.

Enough is enough. Tell him the truth.

Mitch said, “Stop daydreaming, Ben. If the show folds out of town, it'll butcher the cast. And murder me.” Mitch's eyes wouldn't let go of mine. “Or do we close before we move out of town?”

I used to be able to tell wonderful lies.

Mitch was saying, “Everybody in the business knows I turn down five for every play I do. I've got my thing hanging out there. Tell me, Ben. Level.”

I can usually put my arm around a gay man without feeling uncomfortable. This time I felt queasy because it was part of my deceit.

“I should have talked to you earlier, Mitch. You didn't expect financing this production would be a walk, did you?”

“Of course not. But we move out of town in ten days. It's panic time.”

I took my arm off Mitch's shoulder.

“I guess I'd better tell you,” I said.

“Tell me what?”

Tell him Manucci.

“You got time, Mitch?”

“Is it a solution?”

“Of course.”

Mitch's smile could have cracked glass. “Don't tell me what it is, Ben, just do it.”

He headed toward the doors of the theater, then turned to say, “Your word is good, Ben. I'll tell the others.”

The moment before he went back into the auditorium, as if he'd
forgotten something, he turned at the door just enough to blow me a
kiss.

My lie galvanized me into a rapid stride back toward my office. Before opening the door I ran my fingers through my hair. Thank heaven, no more beseechers. Charlotte said, “Ezra told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That he couldn't stop you from going down to the theater to close the play.”

“He had no business telling you.”

“He says you could end up in jail. Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Close the play.”

“I didn't have the guts. Why are you smiling?”

“I know you.”

“Nobody knows me. Not anymore.”

“That reporter from the
New York Post
called.”

She handed me the slip. Larry Robertson. Page Six slime, read by the
Post
's
lawyers and then everyone else in town. I dropped the slip into the wastebasket just as I heard the phone ring in the outer office.

Charlotte buzzed. “It's him again.”

“Ezra?”

“No, Robertson.”

“All right.” I wasn't ducking any more calls.

“Ben Riller,” I said into the phone.

“Hi, Mr. Riller. I've been trying to reach you about a little item we're running in tomorrow's paper about the show. I'd just like to get your comment on the story around town that
The Best Revenge
may never open.”

“Mr. Robertson?”

“Yes?”

“If I tell you you're wrong, your story will say ‘Producer denies show folding,' right?”

“Unless you'd care to confirm that it is folding or make some other comment.”

“I do,” I said.

“Slowly, please,” he said, “so I can take it down.”

“Mr. Robertson,” I said, “does your wife have syphilis?”

Robertson's voice shrilled, “What the hell kind of question is that?”

“I'll tell you,” I said. “I've got an AP wire service reporter here finishing up an interview and he'd like to run a story saying
‘
Post
reporter denies wife has syphilis.' Well, has she or hasn't she?”

I could hear Robertson breathing. Then he said, “You win, Mr. Riller,” and hung up.

Fuck him. The worst thing you can do is lie down in the snow.

Louie's voice in my ear was saying,
Italians are wonderful people, Ben, warm. Look how many times Manucci reached a hand out to help me. A phone call won't hurt.