The Manolo Matrix

Acknowledgments

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Agent Devlin Brady didn’t move a muscle.

He just stared right at me, his face etched in stone, his eyes penetrating. The man scared me and, unreasonably, that made me feel better. This was a hard man. And a man like this could keep me safe—even if my role in the game was to try to protecthim .

“Talk to me, Crane,” he said. “I need to know what you’re doing here.”

There was no denying the sharp edge of anger in his voice, and I cringed. “I got a message,” I said.

“About Play. Survive. Win. I’m…I guess I’m playing now.” I licked my lips. “And I guess you are, too.”

His face never softened, but I saw a flicker of something cross his eyes. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets as he moved out of the foyer and into the living room. Not knowing what else to do, I

followed, silently congratulating myself on only looking back toward the door once. There was no place to run, after all. For an hour now I’d been telling myself that this apartment was safety.

Now that I was here, I was clinging to that, and nothing was going to make me change my mind.

Not even Devlin Brady.

Also by Julie Kenner

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The Givenchy Code

The Spy Who Loves Me

Nobody But You

AnOriginal Publication of POCKET BOOKS

DOWNTOWN PRESS, published by Pocket

Books

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1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2006 by Julie Kenner

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All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available ISBN: 1-4165-2327-8

DOWNTOWN PRESS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Visit us on the World Wide Web:

http://www.SimonSays.com

This book is dedicated to Betsy Cornwell and the LBJ Drama Club back in the early ’80s, especially the techies and the folks who shied away from the cafeteria to eat lunch in the drama room. I probably would have discovered Broadway musicals on my own, but it wouldn’t have been half as much fun!

Acknowledgments

Huge thanks are due to the many folks who helped with this book: Hugh Barnett, theater manager, the

Broadhurst Theater in New York; Reagan Fletcher, archivist, the Shubert Archives; Special Agent Rene

Salines with the FBI; Cornelius Patrick Byrne, owner of Central Park Carriages (and thanks as well to

Clancy and Sean); and, especially, the Internet, particularly the totally cool Internet Broadway Database.

JENNIFER

Jennifer Crane.That’s it. That’s my name. Ever heard of me?

I’m guessing not, which, frankly, sums up my entire problem with my life as it currently stands: I’m not famous. And, as far as I can tell, the fame fairy isn’t going to be anointing me any time soon.

Sucks, doesn’t it?

And what really reeks is that I’mgood. I’ve got a voice on me that rivals Julie Andrew’s (and that’s before she had throat surgery).

Actually, you know what? I take that back. I’m pretty sure it’s a grievous sin to compare yourself to

Julie Andrews, who is, in my opinion, a goddess of stage and screen. The woman has some serious pipes. But, honestly, I could give Patti LuPone, Joanna Gleason, or Betty Buckley a run for their money any old day.

Which begs the question of why I was currently earning a living (such that it was) as a singing waitress instead of opening on Broadway.

Obviously, the right part hasn’t come along. Or agent. Or director. Or producer.

I don’t think it’s me. Really I don’t.

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The thing is, I could be wrong. I try not to think about that, though. Someone once said that success is ninety-eight percent attitude, and I’m definitely staying optimistic. (And never mind that the someone who said that was me. It’s perfectly sound wisdom and, frankly, I trust myself more than I trust anyone else.)

All of which is little more than a backdrop to the reason why I ended up singing Gloria Gaynor’s

“I Will

Survive” despite the fact that I am not a gay male and hadn’t even rehearsed the thing.

It was all Brian’s fault.

He’s a self-proclaimed screaming tenor, has slept with more producers than I’ve auditioned for, and is one of my absolute best friends. We worked together at Ellen’s Stardust Diner for almost two years, until last week when he was hired to replace an actor who’d tripped down the subway stairs and busted his femur all to hell. No kidding. It was like something out ofAll About Eve, except that Brian hadn’t even been an understudy. Apparently he’d auditioned for the show early on, did reasonably well, and the producer remembered him. The other actor’s broken leg was, literally, Brian’s big break. And he landed himself a minor, but important, role, the bastard. Not that I’m bitter or anything, but talk about luck.

At any rate, the show is calledPuck’s Dream, it’s a new musical loosely based onA Midsummer Night’s

Dream. Lots of production numbers, lots of effects. Brian’s even featured in two scenes, and in one he actually gets to fly across the stage. From what he tells me, it’s pretty cool, and I’m trying very hard, albeit somewhat unsuccessfully, not to be jealous.

The production was scheduled to premiere at the Belasco Theater in about a week, and Brian’s cousin

Felix—aka Fifi for reasons I’m not even going to bother going into—had come in from Los Angeles to help Bri celebrate. Naturally, Brian brought Fifi to the diner. And, just as naturally, he was giving me a hard time. (Brian, that is. Not his cousin.)

“Sweetie,” Brian said, squeezing in beside the condiments, “you’re positively maudlin. You need some serious cheer. After work. Drinks. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Are you concerned about me? Or are you just trying to make sure you’re not alone with Fifi?”

“Well, he is a little high maintenance, but you know I love him. And don’t change the subject, anyway.”

I made a face. “You’re not even supposed to be back here anymore.”

“I go where I’m needed,” he said. “And I’m definitely needed here. Look at you! You’re going to bring down the crowd if you go out there like that. What are you planning on singing, anyway? ‘Memory’?”

I scowled because he’d totally pegged me. “Maybe,” I said. I couldn’t help it. Iwas morose. I’d auditioned that morning for an off-Broadway revival ofCarousel, a show I know inside and out, and absolutely love, but I swear I might as well have stood on that stage and farted for all the good my rehearsing did me. I couldn’t even see the producer or the director past the stage lights. All I heard was a cough and then a curt, “Thank you. We’ll be in touch.” And then the stage manager was ushering me off the stage.

Granted, that’s often par for the course in the world of open call auditions, but I’d really expected the director to leap to his feet, race to the stage, and sign me on the spot. Or, if not that, then I’d at least expected a good vibe. As it was, I got zilch. No vibe, no job, no nothing.

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“Attitude,” Brian said, tossing my philosophy back in my face. “Remember?” He pointed toward the main part of the restaurant, where rows of booths were filled with people eating mostly bad-for-you food that really is delicious (I gained ten pounds my first month, then put
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myself on a strict diet that I’ve mostly stuck to ever since). Leslie Danziger was strutting her stuff on the railing that ran between two sets of booths. Her microphone was close enough to swallow, her blond wig was slightly askew, and she was belting out “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” She was clearly having a great time. Obviously,she hadn’t had a crap audition just a few hours before.

“I’m switching you,” Brian said. “Michael’s on after Leslie. And you, my dear, are taking his place.”

“The hell I am.” I turned behind me and found Michael, who I like a lot, but who also happens to be a huge wimp with an equally huge crush on Brian. He just shrugged and blew me a kiss. I knew I was sunk. Done in by two gay men with an agenda.

“Attitude, sweetie. Do you want to be consigned to failure? Do you want to sit and mope? Do you want to let your depression fester inside you and give you ulcers and cold sores? One is not fun and the other issuch a bad look for you.”

As a matter of fact, I did want to sulk, but I knew better than to argue with Brian. “Fine. Fine.

What is

Michael—what amI —singing?”

“‘I Will Survive.’”

“I don’t think so.”

“Sweetie, trust me. You need an attitude adjustment.”

Idid need an attitude adjustment, but I wasn’t in the habit of utilizing gay male power anthems to make them. Call me crazy, but my best attitude adjustments come when I’m shopping.

Brian, however, was deaf to my protests. He shoved the microphone into my hand, pressed his palm against my back, signaled to Damien (who runs the sound equipment), and pushed.

Suddenly all eyes in the room were on me, and I could either belt out the tune or stand there looking like an idiot. Since I don’t do idiot well, I sang.

And you know what? Idid feel better. Not at first, mind you. At first, I just felt pissed off. At Brian.

But then the words infiltrated my brain. Like Gloria Gaynor, I was strong. I could get along.

And, dammit, I was a survivor. MaybeCarousel didn’t want me, but someone would. I’d find an agent. I’d hit the streets. I’d blow away every producer from 41st to 53rd. And by this time next year,my name would splashed acrossPlaybill, and the crowds would be lining up around the block, just like they did for

Spamalot. (Hey, a girl can dream.)

In the end, I nailed that tune. I strutted my stuff, flirted with the men, bonded with the women, and threw a final kiss to Fifi. And when the song was over, I turned on my heel, tossed the microphone to Damien, then launched myself at Brian. He spun me around, my poodle skirt flaring in a way that probably lacked a certain level of modesty.

“Better?”

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“Totally,” I admitted. I crushed my palms against his cheeks and planted a huge kiss right on his mouth.