Authors: Garson Kanin
They turned to one another and conversed as though I were not there.
R
USS
: Look here, ol’ chap. Do you suppose we’ve stumbled onto an odd affair?
B
UDDY
: Odd is right.
R
USS
: I mean the way Doctor Ehrlich stumbled onto his Formula Six-oh-six? Or was that Doctor Edward G. Robinson?
B
UDDY
: Are you trying to say, in your stumbling, mumbling way, that Missy Midge and Mister Clay are a
thing?
R
USS
: God! I’ve never heard him accused of AC-DC, have you?
B
UDDY
: Heaven forbid.
R
USS
: Yuk. Is there
anything
more revolting than indecision?
B
UDDY
: Than not knowing which way to turn?
R
USS
: Watch it, Buddy.
B
UDDY
: Is that a small 'b’ buddy or a big 'B’ Buddy?
R
USS
: Medium.
B
UDDY
: Or could it be—look at me, I’m trembling—could it be that Mister Clay has
switched
completely?
R
USS
: Are you asking me if Clay has feet of
clay?
This was too much for Buddy, who went right out of his chair.
They turned back to me.
“What? You still here?” asked Russ.
“Tell all,” said Buddy, suddenly matey.
“I will if you will,” I said.
“You first.”
“All right. You guessed it. Clay and I are in love. And we’re going to be married.”
“Water!” Russ shouted.
Buddy, for once, was speechless.
“Wait a second,” said Russ. “Are we all talking about the same Clay. Or are there two?”
“There’s only one I care about,” I said, “and he’s in trouble.”
“He sure as hell is,” said Russ, “if he thinks he can make it work with you. It’s been tried before, you know.”
“I’m talking about his big trouble.”
“Oh, that’s bullshit,” said Buddy. “Those narcs aren’t half-wits, y’know. Give them two, three days. They’ll come up with it. It’s all a movie. Life’s a movie. It all comes out even in the end. Hitchcock or whoever. You can’t have a whodunit without a who, can you? And it’s no fun at all if they get the right guy right off, is it? I mean, you’d have a short, not a feature.”
“And anyway,” said Russ, “you don’t think that the man—oh, God!—you love and are going to marry is
bad,
do you?”
“Yes, I do. But it makes no difference.”
“Makes it even better, maybe?” asked Buddy.
“No. But I can’t help it.”
“Midge,” said Russ, suddenly serious and warm, “Clay Botsford is no pusher. He’s clean as a whistle—as your father always said.”
“Who, then?” I asked, looking at him hard.
He shifted his glance to Buddy, who said “no” with his eyes.
Buddy spoke. “Look, kid. When I was in the Army, there was an old Army saying around. It goes like this: 'Keep your bowels open, your mouth shut, and never volunteer.’ It’s good advice around a show, too. Don’t go too deep into all this. You might maybe get in over your head.”
“You’re not going to tell me.”
“No.”
“But you know.”
“Yes,” said Russ.
“That makes you God-damned low, the two of you. Even lower than I thought.”
“For 'lower,’” said Russ, “read 'smarter.’”
“Don’t ever count on me for anything,” I said. “And if I can ever do anything to damage you, I will.”
“Hey, Midge,” said Buddy. “All that about you and Clay. A crock, right? A ruse?”
“Right,” I said. “A crock.”
“Allah be praised,” said Russ.
I went to the theatre. An understudy rehearsal was in progress. In the darkness of the wings, grass was being smoked profusely. I joined a group of three who were passing a stick around. I slipped in, and in turn, took a few drags.
“This sure is lousy shit,” I said. “Where’s it from? The A and P?”
“Local,” said a girl. “You’re right.”
“Doesn’t help me, anyhow,” I said. “Anybody know where I can pick up some candy?”
“Why don’t you get it where I get mine?” said a boy.
“Where’s that?”
“From The Tooth Fairy,” he said.
They all looked at one another. They were onto me.
I left the theatre and went straight to the hospital. In the lobby, I started the Sony, put it, running, into my totebag, and went up to see Diana.
She was sitting up in bed, wearing a pretty bed jacket, and smoking pot.
“How are you, Diana?”
“Well, look at me! And what about all this loot?”
The room was filled with flowers and plants and books and presents.
“Great. I think
I’ll
take a fall.”
“Do it. I’m the Queen of the Moulin Rouge, for God’s sake. I haven’t had so much attention since the crib—and
that
wasn’t bad, either.”
“Have they said yet how long?”
“I’ve stopped listening,” she said. “They change it every day.”
“But in time for New York?”
“When’s that?”
“Let’s see. Two weeks from yesterday.”
“God, I hope so! I’m very big in New York, you know.”
“Of course.”
“Everybody missing me pretty bad?” she asked.
“Desperately.”
“Good. And how’s everything else around the ol’ sweatshop? Any news?”
“Not much. Just poor Eddie.”
She sat up sharply, and cried out.
“Aahh!!
God damn fucking back.
Shit!”
She settled back, slowly, tamped out her stick, and looked at me.
“What
about
Eddie?”
“You don’t
know?”
“Know
what?”
“You haven’t
heard?”
It was cat-and-mouse all right—only I didn’t know if I was the cat or the mouse.
“Nothing about
him,
no,” she said.
I took a deep breath and said, “Busted.”
“Out of the show?” she asked, acting like a dancer.
“Out of life,” I said. “He could get ten years, they say. In
this
state.”
“What did he do, for God’s sake? Rape the Mayor’s sister?”
“Worse. Peddled narcotics.”
“Eddie?” she said. Her acting was getting worse.
“The same.”
“But where? I mean, who to, for instance?”
“You
to, for instance,” I said.
“Me-ee?”
she yelled, stretching the word out into two or three syllables.
“That’s right.”
“Who says?”
“He
says. Not only you. But you’re on the list.”
“He’s a goddamn liar. I’d like to see him
prove
it, that little snake. If he says—”
“Easy, Di, easy.”
“Why should
I?…”
“Will you calm down? It’s not a serious crime to
buy
coke—just to sell it.”
“Look,” she said, “I don’t have to take this shit. My roommate’s boyfriend is a terrific lawyer. I’m getting him on the phone.”
“You’re wasting your time, Di. And his. If he’s
any
kind of a lawyer, he’ll tell you what all the kids have been told.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?”
“To tell the truth. When you’re called, you’ll be under oath. What you’ve done up to now is not much—but perjury
is.”
“What kids? Who?”
“Everybody he was supplying. He gave them a list. He’s cooperating like a son-of-a-bitch. I guess it’s part of some kind of plea bargaining.”
“That dirty little bastard! And on top of everything else—he was pushing lousy stuff. Cut. Ask anybody. I think that’s what made me so sick. The cut stuff—and whatever he put in it. I’ve never gotten sick from a little snow in my whole life. Just exhilarated. But how
about
that little bastard? We cover for him and he blows the whistle on us. Little Jew bastard.”
“Convery?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! You believe that? If he’s Convery, I’m Liebowitz. He’s probably
Cohen.”
“What do you know?”
“God
damn
what a blast!”
“Poor Eddie. He’s going to get it two ways, probably. From the law and from the Big Boys.”
“No, no. He’s in solid with them.”
“How do
you
know?”
“Because. He asked me to do him a favor and date one of them down here—a detective—”
“I know,” I said. “Bronzini.” (Where did
that
come from?) “He asked me, too. I told him I was too busy.”
“No. Not Bronzini. Regan. Mike Regan. Lovely guy. Lousy lay, but lovely guy. He sent me those yellow roses.”
I went over and inhaled their fragrance, thinking, I’ve got enough. More than enough.
I told her about the show, the work being done, the changes being made. I gave her the last two bulletins, and got out.
I thought of going back to Atkins, but simply could not bear the thought of dealing with that snooty, patronizing poop.
Instead, I called Art and Cindy and Clay, told them it was important—very important—and asked for a meeting.
In less than an hour, we were assembled at Art’s place.
I told my story, and played both tapes. Alicia-Eddie and Diana-me.
The reactions were curious and unexpected.
Art was, first, embarrassed; then angry. (He had not trusted Clay for a moment.)
Cindy sat there giggling. I suppose she was relieved and excited.
Clay burst into tears, and sat bent over, with his face in his hands. Later, he came over to me and kissed me.
The next move was to plan the final strategy. Cindy was all for going at once to Atkins. I was against it, but was outvoted.
Art wanted to send for Eddie and confront him. For some reason, Clay was violently opposed to this idea.
Clay thought we should go to the authorities at once with the new information.
“Not so fast,” said Cindy. “All this stuff could be inadmissible. Tapped phone. Secret tape.”
“Wrong,” I said. “I took down the Eddie call in shorthand—that’s not tapping—that’s monitoring. And the Diana thing—I’ll swear an affidavit. I once worked in a law office, so I know about stuff like that. I remember the conversation. How could I forget it?”
“I still say lawyer,” said Cindy. “Let’s not be wiseass and outsmart ourselves here.”
“She’s right,” said Art. “We’re amateurs. We think it’s all open-and-shut. The judge could maybe think different.”
Clay spoke. “Anyway, Midge, you did one hell of a job.”
“That’s what she gets paid for,” said Art, larky again. “What d’you think I pay her for?”
“I didn’t go to all this trouble for
you,
Art,” I said, and made, at last, a really dignified exit.
SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON
Company Bulletin
Thursday, December 6
QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:
“Consider, Sir; celebrated men, such as you have mentioned, have had their applause at a distance; but Garrick had it dashed in his face, sounded in his ears, and went home every night with the plaudits of a thousand in his cranium…If all this had happened to me, I should have had a couple of fellows with long poles walking before me, to knock down everybody that stood in the way…Sir, a man who has a nation to admire him every night, may well expect to be elated.”
Samuel Johnson
HEALTH
: Try to get some rest on the 6:00-7:00 break. Take fructose. Eat glucose. Grapes. Drink grape juice. Gatorade. Take calcium. Sit still when not working. Pray.
COSTUME CHANGES
: Re “Big Town” elimination: If anyone in the reroutining to the street scene anticipates any difficulty in making either a costume change or a makeup change, please communicate this information immediately to Stu Bender.
FITTINGS
: Costume, wig, and shoe fittings for the new numbers are occurring now with greater frequency, so please be prompt for them so that you can return to rehearsal as quickly as possible.
PRESS MEETING
: Please note that the Press Meeting scheduled for 2:00 P.M. on Friday, December 7, has been canceled.
Paul Cooley
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: JOEY FAYE
(Mickey Ryan)
What can I tell you? East Side New York. Amateur nights. The mountains. Burlesque: The Gaiety. Floogle Street. Water in the Pants…
“Betcha five dollars you’re not here!”
“Bet.”
“All right. Now, you’re not in Cincinnati…”
“No.”
“Well, if you’re not in Cincinnati and you’re not in Tallahassee, you must be someplace else. Right?”
“Right!”
“So if you’re someplace else, you can’t be here, right?”
“Right!”
“So I’ll take the money!”
“What-the-
HEY!”
Stuff like that. Finally, a Broadway show. YOKEL BOY with Phil Silvers, a great man. More shows. Some movies. TV. Commercials. Night spots. Meantime, married several times. Not too good. My fault. Why am I telling you all this? My philosophy? There’s No Business Like Show Business. My advice? Come on Strong.
There are now 14 days remaining until our New York opening.
A nightmare afternoon.
I walked over to the theatre with Clay. Although he knew the worst was over and his clearance only a matter of time, he was edgy.
We reached the theatre and started up the alley to the stage door. Eddie and a bunch of the kids were lounging about. Some of them, dancers, were practicing a new combination that has gone in recently. One singer, Johnny, was warming up.
“Hi, folks,” said Clay, trying to sound casual.
If only it could have ended there.
Clay’s hand was on the knob of the stage door, and that dolt Eddie had to spoil it all.
“Say, Clay,” he said.
Clay turned to him.
“Yes?”
“Can I talk to you a minute?”
“You bet,” replied Clay, his hand still on the knob.
Eddie came closer and said, “I’m sorry as hell about your hassle.”
“Are you?”
“Damn right. Those bums. And listen—if there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
Clay’s hand came off the knob, and he faced Eddie. Clearly, this was too much. He was pale. Trembling, too?
“Well, Eddie, as a matter of fact, there
is
something you can do.”
“What?”
“Come with me tomorrow morning over to Judge Belkin’s office—he’s the one’s got me under ten thousand dollars’ bail—”
“Yuh?” said Eddie, uncertainly.
“—and tell him how
you’re
the one’s been peddling stuff to the company—and how
you’re
the one got my trunk combination from Nan Arnold and planted the stash on me.” Eddie was frozen. Clay went on, too gently. “Would you do that with me, please? First thing tomorrow morning?”
The color was back in Clay’s face, but out of Eddie’s. It was almost as if the blood had been transferred from one head to the other. Weird.
Eddie backed away half a step.
“What’re you,
nuts?”
“I don’t think so. Are you?”
Eddie, suddenly emboldened, moved close to Clay, and in a low and confidential voice, said, “Listen, you fairy bastard. Don’t mess with
me.
Not around here. I’m
connected.
You want to hear more? You dump on me and you’ll wind up with your balls gone! If you’ve got any.”
“Are you threatening me, Eddie?”
“What do
you
think?”
“I think it’s time to stop thinking,” said Clay.
He took off his glasses and handed them to me.
Eddie squared off, in the manner of an experienced street fighter. Stocky and solid.
Clay, without glasses, looked weak and ineffectual.
“Please, Clay,” I said. “This is ridiculous.”
I feared for him in this situation.
He moved toward Eddie
“I’m
warning
you!” said Eddie.
The action had attracted the attention of the kids in the alley. They laughed, assuming it to be conventional alley clowning.
Eddie said, “I’ve got—”
“What?” said Clay. “Who?
Regan?”
A gasp from Eddie.
“He’s
in trouble, too. Just like
you.”
“You’re
dead,
man, you know it? You’re
dead!
You can—”
Whatever else he meant to say was stopped by Clay’s fist as it slammed into his mouth and clattered to the pavement. His full plate. Upper and lower. With his face thus collapsed, he looked eighty years old. Clay hit him again, this time on the side of the head. It all seemed unreal.
At one moment, I thought, how can Clay bear to be beating this little old man?
Eddie fought back, but the loss of his teeth had demoralized him.
A girl screamed. Two of the boys rushed in in an attempt to separate the fighters. One got hit in the ear by a flailing blow from Eddie. Blood was flowing. Whose?
Now Eddie began to scream. Looking about for his teeth, he saw an empty beer bottle, picked it up, smashed it on the pavement and brandished the broken half. Clay moved in to take it away from him. As he did so, Eddie’s right knee came up hard and caught Clay in the groin. He doubled up with a sickening groan. As he did so, Eddie moved in and hit him a karate chop on the back of the neck. Clay went down. Eddie kicked him. Clay grabbed his foot, tripped him. Eddie fell. Clay got on top of him, grabbed his ears and began beating his head into the pavement. By this time, several stagehands had rushed out into the alley. They pulled Clay off. He staggered into the theatre. Eddie was out, cold.
I went into the theatre and found Clay in his office.
“I need a doctor,” he said.
I ran out to the front of the house and asked the house manager to get a doctor right away.
He got to the theatre half an hour later. Clay had recovered. Eddie needed not only the doctor but the ambulance that had been sent for.
He is still in the hospital, on the same floor as Diana.
No lessons to be learned from any of this. All too mad and wrongheaded. No lessons, but a few observations. Isn’t it strange how unpredictable human behavior is? Clay. A soft, shy, diffident man. Who would have thought that in a crisis he could turn into a raging tiger, a powerful pugilist, a righteous crusader? And Eddie in all this. Cindy. The only one who ran true to form was Art. I might have known.