“Mort Hornberg’s assistant, Sunny Browning. She raises the money for the shows. You’ll meet her at lunch.” But lunch, Wetzon was sure, would be a trial. Smith was in her troublemaking mode.
Inspecting her manicure, Smith said, “I’m sure.” She rose and threw open the bathroom door and smiled at her image in the full-length mirror. “What kind of people name a child Sunny? Is she black?”
“No, she isn’t. And what difference would it make anyway? Her real name is Sunshine.”
“Sunshine! Unbelievable!” Smith began fussing with her makeup, putting blush on her face.
My kingdom for a Valium, Wetzon thought.
The phone rang, rang again, then stopped. Max knocked and opened the door. “Mrs. Orkin for you, Wetzon.”
“For me?” Mrs. Orkin? Susan Orkin?
“Yes.” Max closed the door.
She picked up the phone and said, “Leslie Wetzon.”
“Leslie, this is Susan Orkin.” A soft voice with a kind of sexy croak. There was something vaguely familiar about it.
“Yes?” Wetzon stayed noncommittal.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I was Susan Cohen when we were at Douglass together.”
“Susan Cohen? From Douglass? I can’t believe it.” How astonishing. All this time Susan Orkin had been Susan Cohen, and Wetzon hadn’t known it. She saw the girl who was Susan Cohen as clear as yesterday. Slim, tiny, honey-blond hair, an attractive angle to her nose, dimples. They’d had more than a few classes together throughout their four years of college.
“I’m Susan Cohen Orkin. Dilla and I—”
“I know. I just didn’t know you were the Susan I knew. God, that sounds so convoluted. I’m so sorry about Dilla. Is there anything I can do?”
This time, Susan’s voice broke. “Please, can we talk privately? I need your help.”
10.
They checked their coats in the street-level coatroom and walked slowly up the blue-and-rust diamond carpeted steps. As always, Smith turned heads in her wake. They were late. Wetzon obsessed about being on time to the point where she was always early, but they were always late when Smith was involved.
For Wetzon, the Four Seasons was a magical place. Eighteen steps led to the most dramatic restaurant setting in New York. Ceilings soared at least twenty feet. This season being winter, the pottings contained the stark straight-arrow stalks of white birches. The staff uniforms were brown. All year round the restaurant was the home of the let’s-do-business drink, the power lunch—in the Grill Room—and the reward dinner in the Pool Room. Actually, Wetzon could never really take the Pool Room seriously. It was just on the line of precious with a dash of pretension, and you were more likely to see tourists there than in the Grill Room, which was her favorite spot, and lunch was her favorite time.
She and Smith had been introduced at the Four Seasons by the man who was then their mutual attorney. They had formed their company over drinks in the Grill Room. Wetzon interviewed brokers there. One—Barry Stark—had been murdered in the phone booth just off the ground floor anteroom. The detective who caught the case had been Silvestri.
Although she still interviewed brokers at the Four Seasons, Wetzon could never erase the rush of jitters that passed over her whenever she climbed those stairs.
Without a sense of haste, Smith was engaged in exchanging pleasantries with Paul Kovi, one of the owners, who today stood behind the reservations desk. Wetzon surveyed the room. Wouldn’t you know, they were all there, even Mort, who was as conscientiously tardy as Smith. They were sitting at one of the rectangular tables along the rosewood-paneled backdrop below the balcony.
The men leapt to their feet with a sight more energy than Wetzon thought necessary. Mort, the bags under his bloodshot eyes pronounced today, was well into his role of creative genius, wearing jeans and a red cashmere pullover—to match his eyes no doubt—a tweed jacket and a flashy silk tie. His tortoiseshell glasses were parked on top of his bald pate. He was focused on Smith.
Twoey Barnes, dear Twoey, wore his heart on his face. Goldman Barnes II was a gangly, red-haired, myopic softy, all six feet plus of him. A killer on the trading floor, maybe, but a pushover where Smith was concerned.
“Mort, my partner Xenia Smith,” Wetzon said. She felt as if she were not part of the scene at all.
“Mort Hornberg,” Mort said, riding over her, practically falling on Smith’s extended hand, his eyes on her legs. He was notoriously ambivalent about women. Still, he’d always liked attractive ones around. Legs were his thing. And Smith had fabulous legs.
“Charmed,” Smith said.
“And this is Sunny Browning.” Mort motioned to Sunny Browning to change her chair so that Smith could sit next to him. He was drinking some sort of evil brown liquid in a glass.
Smith’s eyes flicked over Sunny Browning in her Armani jacket and stark white shirt and loosely knotted purple silk tie, and then moved on to Twoey. “Sweetie pie, I’ve missed you desperately.” Her voice was husky. She gave him a dazzling smile and turned back to Mort.
Wetzon caught Sunny’s eye. The woman didn’t miss much. You could almost see her totaling things up. Wetzon gave Twoey a peck on the cheek and sat between him and Sunny. Smith was up to her usual tricks: seduction and manipulation, and once again Wetzon had an aisle seat.
The baked salmon won out. A waiter in a brown toreador jacket took their food and drink orders, and Mort added a bottle of champagne. Smith beamed. Mort was doing all the right things.
“I’m sorry we kept you—” Wetzon was stopped in her tracks by Smith’s glare. Smith’s motto was never apologize, along with if they give, you take and if they take, you scream.
Smith smiled sweetly at Mort and patted his hand. “Do go on. We’ll just sit here like quiet little mice and listen.”
“I was just telling Mr. Barnes—”
“Twoey, please.” Twoey’s eyes crinkled behind gold-rimmed glasses.
“Twoey it is,” Mort said with another burst of heartiness and brushed imaginary dandruff from one shoulder, then the other. “I was just telling Twoey that Hotshot is a ten-character musical, six dancers and four actors, but of course, everyone will be equally important to the whole.” He took a sip of the evil liquid and smiled at Smith. “Each actor is a principal on a white contract. Of course, Carlos Prince, our choreographer, has his work cut out for him. Getting actors to do review pieces is my job; getting them to dance is his.” He gave Wetzon an exaggerated wink. “And he’s done his usual amazing sleight-of-hand.”
A waiter arrived with their platters and another brought a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. Tulip glasses were filled halfway. Wetzon and champagne did not agree so she left it sparkling in the glass, and whispered to the waiter, “Amstel Light.”
“We’ve capitalized Hotshot at five million, taking into consideration our three-week tryout in Boston ... ah, Twoey.” Mort rolled Twoey’s name around on his tongue, registered it, then tucked it into one of the little compartments in his mind. “Sunny can give you the budget. We have an ensemble company—no stars—so we can keep costs down.”
“No stars?” Smith asked innocently, then moved in for the kill. “How do you expect to pay back your investors?”
Mort looked nonplussed. Had he thought Smith was stupid? Well, surprise, surprise.
“On the strength of the book and music.” It was the first time Sunny had spoken. She’d pulled some papers from a zippered, hand-held Louis Vuitton portfolio and now she efficiently passed a set around to Twoey, Smith, and Wetzon. “The top page is the budget. The second page is a breakdown of our royalty schedule, estimated break-even at the Colonial in Boston and here in New York.”
Mort smiled benevolently at Twoey, who was running his eyes down the budget. “I understand from Leslie that you’re serious about becoming a producer.”
“Mort, old chum.” A tall man in a two-thousand-dollar suit, dark hair showing just the righ
t touch of white at the temples, clasped Mort’s shoulder. They shook hands solemnly. “How’s it going? Terribly sad about Dilla. Such a tragedy.”
“Yes, we’ll miss her,” Mort said, with just the right amount of studied melancholy, “but she would have wanted us to go on.”
Sure, Wetzon thought. The show had to go on, didn’t it?
She recognized the man in the two-thousand-dollar suit. Joel Kidde was the eccentric head of the top talent agency in the world. He had the appetite of a goat. Once at Sardi’s Wetzon had seen him eat a contract.
Kidde glanced at Smith and hung in there until Mort made the introductions. “Well ...” Kidde said, giving Smith an aural caress. “I’ll see you in Boston, Mort.” He moved on to the next table, where he bestowed more greetings.
Smith purred, “What an interesting man.”
What have I done, Wetzon thought.
In the meantime, Mort had resumed his commentary on the budget. “What we didn’t figure on, Twoey, is that we wouldn’t get subscription for the full three weeks in Boston. We’re okay for the first two, which means we could go into the hole in the third week if the reviews are boring, or mixed.”
“How much do you suppose you’ll need?” Twoey asked.
“Safely, a million should cover us and give us a sinking fund.”
Twoey studied the budget figures. “That’s do-able.”
Sunny said, “If there’s anything you don’t understand, please ask.” Her shoulder-length hair was the color of sand with streaks of bottled sun. She wore it pulled back from her slightly horsey face with a black velvet headband.
Twoey grinned at her; she smiled at him. That Sunny liked him was obvious.
Lowering her eyelids halfway, Smith contemplated Twoey, then Sunny and Twoey again. Danger, Wetzon thought. Danger-danger-danger.
“We estimate our break-even—that’s the weekly operating budget—at approximately four hundred ninety-two thousand. Based on gross weekly box office receipts at capacity at a Broadway theatre of six hundred fifty thousand, the weekly operating profit would be one fifty-eight. With full houses it should take us about thirty-one weeks to pay back the investment. And the road is another story. There are built-in costs, higher salaries, travel expenses, and load-in and load-out costs. We never expect to make money on the road, but we don’t want to lose money either.”
“Must you go to Boston?” Smith inquired. “Why not preview in New York? Wouldn’t you save a lot of money?”
Mort shook his head, his smile on the edge of patronizing. “Yes, but I know you can’t fix a show in New York with all the goddam know-it-alls coming in every night and second-guessing you, telling you what you’re doing wrong.”
“Besides,” Sunny said, “we’re committed to the Colonial. They’ve sold subscription in good faith. We have to go.”
“What about the murder?” Twoey was making notes on the budget with a gold Mont Blanc pen.
“It shouldn’t affect us at all,” Sunny said. “Although in a perverse way it may sell tickets to the usual ghouls who love this kind of thing.”
“Dilla was a dear friend,” Mort intoned, “but we have a lot on the line here.”
“The show must go on,” Wetzon murmured.
“Of course, Leslie is absolutely right. She was one of us not so long ago, and as far as we are concerned, she still is.”
“Well, thank you, Mort,” Wetzon said. “I think.” She looked over at Smith, who was being uncharacteristically silent. Smith was smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
Mort settled his glasses back on his nose and fondled his baldness. “Look, if you’re interested, Twoey, I’d be willing to take you on as associate producer and teach you what I know. Sunny here is my numbers cruncher so she can sit down with you and—”
At this point Smith pounced. “The Smith and Wetzon pension fund,” she pronounced cheerily, “will invest fifty thousand dollars in Hotshot.”
11.
“I can’t believe you did that!” Wetzon had worked herself into such a fury that it was propelling her several paces ahead of Smith. “And with our pension money.” She ended up having to wait, steaming, on the corner of Forty-ninth and Lexington until Smith caught up.
“You know, there’s no pleasing you, Wetzon. Did you or did you not tell me that this musical Mort Hornberg and Your Gay Person are working on was going to make theatre history?”
Smith had stopped referring to Carlos as the Degenerate after he became a celebrity choreographer. “Your Gay Person” was his new designation. And never to be outdone, Carlos loathed Smith. He blamed Smith for luring Wetzon from the Theatre and for trying to impose her values on Wetzon. That his darling Birdie should be partners with someone so bigoted and greedy was a constant source of irritation. Carlos and Smith fought out their battle, around and through Wetzon, usually leaving her quivering in the middle.
This was one of those times. “‘My Gay Person’ has a name, Smith. Read my lips. Carlos Prince.” She found herself stamping her foot on the sidewalk to punctuate her words, to the great entertainment of a multilayered bag lady whose top layer was a moth-eaten mouton coat.
The woman cackled and seemed about to join in the fray when Smith snarled at her. “On your way, or I’ll have you put in a shelter.”
The woman froze. Her face showed abject terror, as if Smith had condemned her to death.
“I mean it.” Smith shook a leather-clad finger at her.
“You are an evil person!” the bag lady shouted. “I put a curse on you.” She pointed two fingers at Smith, spitting at them, then, muttering under her breath, grabbed her shopping cart loaded with bursting plastic garbage bags and a dilapidated broom, whiskered ends up, and pushed off up Lexington.
“Oh, my God.” Smith clutched Wetzon’s arm. “Did you hear her? She put a curse on me.” Her face had a yellowish tinge.
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s disturbed, and you shouldn’t have gotten into it with her. It didn’t mean anything.”
Smith looked slightly relieved, but still seemed to be rattled. She shuddered. “Let’s get out of here.”
Wetzon locked arms with her. “You’ve been hanging around with these psychics too long. Come on, she was just blathering.” Wetzon would have loved to recapture her anger, but, alas, most of it had dissipated. “Of course, I did see a broom in her shopping cart....”
“No!” Smith turned miserable eyes back to look for the bag lady, but she had disappeared up the avenue.
Wetzon groaned. “I was kidding!”
“You were?”
“Cross my heart.” She made the motion. “Can we get back to Hotshot?”
“You are the limit,” Smith said, recovering. “Well, did you or did you not say this would be a landmark musical?”
“I did, but—” Wetzon shoved her gloved hands into her pockets and grouched all the way to Third Avenue.
“Well, then.” Smith had entirely retrieved her equilibrium. “It was a business decision. Last year was the best year we’ve ever had. We have to diversify where we put our money.”
“But fifty thousand? Jesus, Smith, no one makes money investing in the Theatre anymore.”
‘We will. The Tarot says turmoil, then buckets of money, and the Tarot never lies.”
“I might have guessed.” Wetzon stretched the s’s out into a hiss.
“Trust me.”
Wetzon would have felt a shade better if Smith had not said those last two words. Years earlier a broker had warned Wetzon that trust me is code for fuck you. “Oh, hell,” she muttered.
“Angels!” Smith said with relish. “We’re angels. Isn’t that wonderful?”
The question was rhetorical. Smith had never before expressed any interest in the Theatre, only went to mega hit shows like Miss Saigon and Phantom because one did, and the last thing she would ever have done was invest money in it. And she would have been right. Investment in the Theatre was notoriously risky. Wetzon came to a stop in front of Steve Sondheim’s house.
“What are you doing?”
“Paying homage.” She tipped her beret to Sondheim and then did the same to Kate Hepburn, whose house was next door, and who had, it was said, complained vigorously about the noise from the legendary composer’s piano. “You should join me now that you’re going through the blood rite of investing in a musical.”
“Oh, puh-lease” Smith tugged at her arm. “You’re making a fool of yourself, and of me. What if he came out and saw you?”
“He’d love it.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to be here to find out.” She steered Wetzon across Second Avenue and back to their office.
It was two-thirty. Max had worked his half-day and was gone. Three neat stacks of suspect sheets sat on his desk. Wetzon hung up her coat and collected the stack labeled Wetzon—Priority.
B.B., who was on the phone, waved. The blinking button indicated someone was on hold. Wetzon went into the office she and Smith shared and set Max’s priorities on her desk next to the four phone messages on pink slips. One was from Laura Lee. And Alton. He’d be home Saturday morning and would call her then. If things went as planned, she would be in Boston on Saturday for Carlos’s opening. She had told Alton weeks ago and he’d forgotten.
Wetzon picked up the phone and released the hold button. “Hi, this is Leslie Wetzon. May I help you?”
“I ... oh ... Leslie? Oh, Birdie?” It was not Carlos but the voice was familiar.
“Yes?” She straightened out her date book and plucked a pen from the pressed-glass spooner she kept pens and pencils in.
“Hi, this is Phil? You know, Phil Terrace? From Hotshot?” Everything he said ended with a question. It was disconcerting. “Carlos wanted me to find out if you can meet him at five?”
“Where?” She had told Susan Cohen, or Susan Orkin, as she called herself now, they could meet at six o’clock. That didn’t leave her much time.
“The Polish Tea Room.”
The Polish Tea Room was really the coffee shop of the Edison Hotel on Forty-seventh Street in the Theatre District. It had, over a decade ago, been dubbed the Polish Tea Room because the chef was Polish. “I’ve got a six o’clock, Phil. Do you think he can make it four-thirty? Is he rehearsing?”
Murder: The Musical Page 6