by Stuart Woods
“I danced with the Atlanta Ballet and worked in local theater and studied acting. I enjoyed it, but I wanted to try a bigger arena.”
“I’m glad you chose New York instead of L.A.,” Stone said.
She raised her glass. “So am I.”
“Tell me, where did the Post get the photograph?”
“I directed them to the Atlanta Constitution, which had done a piece on me last year.”
“I think you’re going to do well in this town.”
“From your lips to God’s ear,” she said. “I Googled you and read some of your old press.”
“Not all of it favorable,” Stone said.
“Oh, I don’t know. Like you say, they spelled your name right. I was confused about your connection to a law firm.”
“Woodman & Weld. I’m of counsel to them, which means I handle the cases they don’t want to be associated with publicly. They’re far too prestigious to be representing people who are involved in nasty divorces or have been accused of drunk driving or spousal abuse. Once in a while they throw me a nice personal-injury suit to settle, but I also generate a good deal of my own business.”
“Well, if I’m ever in terrible trouble, I’ll call you,” Carrie said.
“Don’t wait until then,” Stone replied. He looked at his watch. “Perhaps we’d better move along.”
“Yes, we’re already fashionably late,” she said, jumping gracefully to her feet.
They walked out into the spring night, hand in hand.
4
THE PARTY WAS a ten-minute cab ride away, in a large apartment on Central Park South, overlooking the park. A uniformed maid answered the door, and the glitter began.
Stone didn’t know anybody there, but he recognized a few faces from the Broadway stage. There were at least forty people for dinner, so he reckoned it would be a buffet, and he was right.
They worked the room slowly, and they could just as well have stood still and let the crowd come to them, such was Carrie’s new fame. Stone admired the way she met people, not as an equal, but as the new girl. One or two of the young women seemed to be looking her over enviously, but most people seemed impressed with her. Some of them were agents who offered their cards.
“I wish I could recommend somebody,” Stone said, “but this crowd is not part of my world. I’m a theatergoer, but I’m no insider.”
“I think that’s refreshing,” Carrie said. “I love theater people, but it’s nice to know people from other worlds, too.”
They sat on the big terrace with the park views, and a waiter brought them plates. When they had finished dining and were on brandy, a middle-aged man pulled up a chair in front of Carrie, turned and spoke briefly to Stone, then turned his attention back to Carrie.
“I’m Mark Goodwin,” he said, “and I’m one of the two or three best theatrical agents in this town. I’m not going to tell you who the others are.” He gave her the names of half a dozen clients, and it was an impressive list. “I want you to talk to everybody you can, then come and see me.” He gave her his card. “You’ve made a splash already,” he said, “and I’m not talking about the columns, though that doesn’t hurt. I heard about your audition for Del Wood less than an hour after you finished it, and so did a lot of other people.”
“If I were your client,” Carrie asked, “how would you handle me right now?”
“The first thing I would do would be to heal the breach with Del, though not in a way that would put your virtue in jeopardy. Del is an important man in this business, and the part he offered you is the best thing to come along in years. I’ve read the script and heard the score, and you’re perfect for it.”
“How are you going to get him to apologize?” Carrie asked.
“Oh, he’s never going to apologize,” Goodwin said. “The best you can hope for is that he will deign to forget what he did in his office and what you did at the dinner party. If you can forget it, too, he might be willing to call it a draw. I’ve known him a long time, and I know how to handle him.”
“Mr. Goodwin,” Carrie said, “I’m well aware of who you are and how good you are. Get me the part, and I’ll be your new client the same day.”
“It won’t be that hard,” Goodwin said. “After all, you’ve already aced the audition. Come see me tomorrow afternoon at three.” He shook her hand, then Stone’s, and then wandered off into the crowd.
“That sounds promising,” Stone said.
“If I could have picked anybody for an agent, it would have been Mark Goodwin,” Carrie said. “The day before yesterday, I couldn’t have gotten in to see him.”
“Your movie continues,” Stone said. “Next, we’ll have some shots of rehearsals, then a triumphant opening-night scene, then trouble of some sort-alcohol or drugs or an awful man, then recovery and… well, you know the rest.”
“I’m not inclined toward addictions,” Carrie said, “and especially not to bad men. I’ve had one, and that was enough.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Carrie stood up. “Let’s get out of here. I want to show you something.”
Stone followed her downstairs and into a cab, and she gave the driver an address in the West Fifties, between Fifth and Sixth avenues. Once there, they got out of the cab in front of an elegant building. Taking a key from her purse, she led him up the front steps, opened the front door, then another door.
Stone found himself standing in the large room that had, apparently, been the living room when the building had been a single-family house. It was empty of furniture, but it had recently been painted and seemed in very good condition.
“It’s a duplex,” Carrie said, pointing to a balcony at one end of the room. “The bedrooms are up there, and I signed the lease this afternoon.”
“That was quite a leap of faith,” Stone said. “Maybe you’d better slow down a little.”
“No need; I told you that I got a good divorce settlement and that my ex was a rich man then. I’ve been living downtown with a friend, and when I’ve furnished this place, it will be a good leading lady’s apartment. The lease is for two years, and after that I’ll buy something grander on the East Side.”
“A woman with a plan,” Stone said.
“I’ve learned to make my plans happen,” Carrie replied. “It’s something I’m really good at.”
“What other plans do you have?” Stone asked.
“If I had planned better, I would have had a bed delivered this afternoon,” she replied, standing on her tiptoes and kissing him. “I guess we’ll have to make do with one of your bedrooms.” She took his hand and trotted him out to the street and into another cab.
Stone did not offer any resistance.
5
STONE WOKE SLOWLY to the sound of Carrie on the phone, speaking quietly but urgently. She had been a transcendent lover the night before, and in the middle of the night, too, and he felt a little worn out.
Carrie finished her conversation and hung up. “Oh, you’re awake. Good morning. Your housekeeper made me tea and toast.” She began pulling on clothes. “I’ve got a dance class in half an hour, then I’m meeting my designer at the apartment. I’d like you to attend my three o’clock meeting with Mark Goodwin, if you’re available.”
Stone pressed the button on the remote control that raised his bed to a sitting position. “Good morning, Carrie,” he said. “I should tell you that I have no experience with theatrical work, so I’m not sure what use I’d be to you.”
“I just want you to represent me in dealing with Goodwin. I’m told he has a boilerplate client contract that isn’t entirely client-favorable, and I think I need some help with my negotiations with him.”
“Okay. What time?”
She handed him a slip of paper with the address. “Three o’clock. Be five minutes early, will you?” She bent over and kissed him. “You were just great last night; now I’ve gotta run.”
“You’re going to a dance class in an LBD?”
“I’ve got dance clothes in
my locker at the studio. Bye-bye.” Then, with a wave, she fled downstairs.
Stone shaved and showered, got dressed, had some breakfast, and went down to his office. Once again, “Page Six” in the Post awaited him:
Last night at a black-tie dinner for fifty at the home of Broadway angels David and Shirley Medved, Carrie Cox, the new girl in town, continued her sweep through Broadway circles by signing with superagent Mark Goodwin on a handshake. We hear that, before the day is out, he’ll have her signed to her first major role.
My God, Stone thought. How does she do this? His phone rang. “Hello?”
“It’s Dino. You seen the Post?”
“Yeah, just now.”
“How does she do this?”
“I was just wondering the same thing. I was with her continuously from seven last evening until about an hour ago, and I never saw her make a phone call until this morning. She must be communicating psychically with ‘Page Six.’ ”
“Don’t get knocked down in the whirlwind.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Dinner?”
“See you at eight thirty.”
“Are you bringing the girl?”
“I don’t know yet.” Stone hung up.
MARK GOODWIN’S SUITE of offices was upstairs over a big Broadway theater and reached by a tiny elevator. Carrie was sitting in his reception area, flipping through a fashion magazine.
“Oh, hi,” she said. She turned to the receptionist. “Now you can tell Mr. Goodwin we’re here.”
The woman spoke on the phone. “You can go right in,” she said.
Stone followed Carrie into a large office overlooking Schubert Alley. Mark Goodwin kissed Carrie, shook Stone’s hand, and waved them to a sitting area with a sofa and chairs.
“I had lunch with Del Wood,” he said. “My girl is typing up the contract now.”
“Contract?” Carrie asked.
“Two contracts, actually,” Goodwin replied. “One between you and Del and one between you and me.”
“Tell me about the one between Woodie and me.”
“Oh, we sorted things out over lunch and worked out what may be the best deal for a first-time starring role in the history of the Broadway theater.”
“Tell me about it,” Carrie said.
“It’s a one-year contract with an option for another three months. He wanted a run-of-the-play deal, but I nixed that; you may be getting even better offers after the West Coast crowd sees you onstage. Hollywood is going to be interested, I can promise you.” He ran through the salary and other conditions.
“That does sound good,” Carrie said.
“Listen, I already know Del ’s production costs, the number of seats in his theater, and the kind of money he’s paying the rest of the cast, some of whom are my clients; believe me, this is a good deal.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “Now tell me about my deal with you.”
A young woman walked into the office and handed him a file folder. “Here’s my standard client contract,” he said, handing her two sheets of paper, which she turned over to Stone without looking at them.
Stone read quickly through the agreement while Carrie and Goodwin sat silently, waiting. “Two things,” Stone said. “There’s a paragraph in here that says you take a commission on anything she ever does involving somebody you introduced her to. That won’t do.”
“It’s standard,” Goodwin said.
“The other thing is, you can fire her as a client whenever you like, but she has to give you a year’s notice. That won’t do, either. We want termination on thirty days’ written notice by either party, and the other paragraph comes out.”
“Can’t do it,” Goodwin said.
“I’m so sorry we couldn’t reach an agreement, Mark,” Carrie said, “but I think Stone’s points are valid.” She got to her feet.
“Sit down, sit down,” Goodwin said. “For you, I’ll do this.” He made some notes on the contract and buzzed for his girl. “Make these changes pronto,” he said, and then turned back to Carrie. “Here’s your contract with Del Wood.” He handed it to her, and she signed it without reading it.
“You don’t want your attorney to read it first?”
“Not necessary,” Carrie said, handing the contract back to him. “You represent me to others.”
The secretary returned with the other contract, and Stone looked it over and handed it to Carrie. “Looks fine with me,” he said.
Carrie signed it and handed it to Goodwin. He signed both contracts and handed copies to Stone, then he handed Carrie a script and another thick booklet. “Carrie, here are your script and score. You start rehearsals Monday morning at Central Plaza, ten o’clock sharp. You should learn the first act by then, and you should run through the score with a pianist, so that you’re familiar with it.”
“Who’s directing?” she asked.
“Jack Wright,” he replied.
“Oh, good.” She stood up. “Thank you so much, Mark. I look forward to working with you. By the way, I don’t need my hand held; I’ll call you if I have any problems with Woodie.”
Goodwin stood up. “Remember not to call him that,” he said. “He doesn’t like it.”
“I’ll be nice to him, if he’s nice to me,” she said.
“If he gets mad and fires you for any reason, don’t worry about it, just call me.” He handed her a card. “Here’s my BlackBerry number. Memorize it, then eat the card.” He offered Stone his hand. “Nice working with you, Stone. I take it you’ll be Carrie’s personal attorney from here on.”
“That’s correct,” Carrie said, not giving Stone a chance to reply. “Bye-bye, Mark.”
They left the office. Stone looked at his watch: They had been there for twenty-seven minutes. “You do business briskly,” he said to Carrie.
“You have no idea,” she replied. “Please bill me for this and any other work at your usual hourly rate. Now come with me.”
They hailed a taxi, and five minutes later they were at Carrie’s new address. “I want you to see this,” she said, getting out of the cab.
“I saw it last night, remember?”
“No, you didn’t,” she said. She let them into the building. The double doors to her apartment were already open, and some men were carrying boxes upstairs.
Stone’s jaw dropped. The living room was completely furnished, down to small objets d’art on side tables, and there was a Steinway grand piano in a corner. It looked as though Carrie had lived there for a year.
“Like it?” she asked.
“It’s gorgeous. How did you do it so fast?”
“A friend of mine is the best theatrical designer in town. I told him to do it fast, with the best stuff he could find on short notice. I had the pictures and some smaller things in storage.”
“It took me two years to get my house to this state,” Stone said.
“As you said, I do things briskly. What time is dinner?”
6
STONE AND DINO WERE on their second drink, and Carrie still hadn’t arrived. It was nearly nine o’clock.
“She didn’t strike me as the late type,” Dino said.
“She’s had a busy day,” Stone replied, “and she’s just moved into her new apartment; she probably couldn’t find what she wanted to wear in the boxes.” Stone told Dino about the instant furnishing and decoration of the new apartment.
“Here we go,” Dino said, nodding toward the door.
Carrie, dressed in slacks and a sweater, was walking toward the table, limping.
Stone stood and held a chair for her, and it was not until he sat down and looked at her closely that he realized something was wrong. He waved at a waiter, pointed at his drink, then at Carrie.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Carrie said, trembling.
The drink came, and Stone handed it to her. “Big swig,” he said, and she complied.
“Now tell me what’s wrong.”
She gulped. “I was leaving my building, and as I
came down the front steps I saw a man coming down the street from the direction of Fifth Avenue.”
Stone waited while she took a couple of deep breaths.
“He was backlit by a streetlight, so his face was in shadow. To get a taxi I had to walk toward Sixth Avenue for a little bit, because the parked cars were so close together that I couldn’t squeeze between them without getting my clothes dirty. As I walked I could hear his footsteps getting quicker and realized he was running toward me. I saw a cab coming from up the street, and without even looking back, I just threw myself over the hood of a parked car and in front of the cab. As soon as I got inside, I screamed at the driver to get out of there, and I locked the door, because I saw the man reaching for the handle. There was a knife in his other hand.”
“Did he hurt you?” Stone asked. “You were limping when you came in.”
She reached down, took off a shoe, and held it up. The heel was missing. “This was the only wound,” she said. Calmer now and breathing more slowly, she took another big swig of the bourbon.
“Describe him,” Dino said.
“Tall, over six feet, athletic-looking, wearing a raincoat and a felt hat.”
“Any distinguishing features?” Dino asked. He was taking notes now.
“Small scar at the corner of the left eye, another scar on the inside of the right wrist-childhood injury-and a broken nose from football that never healed properly.”
“You saw all that?” Stone asked. “How?”
“I’ve known him since college; he’s my ex-husband.”
“Did you ever see his face?”
“No, but I know how he walks. I know his fascination with knives; he has a collection. It was Max.”
“What’s his last name?” Dino asked.
“Long.”
“Address?”
“It used to be on Habersham Road in Atlanta, big house. He’s living in an apartment now. I don’t know where; it’s just what I’ve heard. Maybe one of his own developments.”
“But in Atlanta.”
“Yes. He wouldn’t go any farther from Habersham Road than he had to.” She was perfectly collected now.