Showbiz, A Novel (2 page)

             
She hadn’t been willing to give up on her dreams, despite the earlier rejections and several top producers’ discouraging her, telling her the business was no place for a young woman. Then she had landed here.

             
As associate producer, she was basically an apprentice to Margolies. It was a job that allowed her to be in the room with the best in the business, helping Margolies make deals, cultivate investors, and get shows off the ground. It was a thrill to work with artists and stars whose names she’d known and revered all her life.

             
Scarlett knew that Margolies might have initially hired her with less-than-legitimate motives, based on her appearance and the novelty of an attractive young woman who aspired to be a producer. But now, four years in, she had managed to fend off his advances while holding onto her job twice as long as any of her predecessors. Out of sheer force of will, hard work, and working long hours, she had become an invaluable, if undervalued, fixture, as Margolies’ right hand. The other half of the unparalleled Margolies Producing Office.

             
Her task for that evening—finding a florist open in the evening as well as finding a place to send the flowers—wasn’t so simple, but in the scheme of things, it was one of her easier assignments. Margolies’ door stayed firmly shut as Scarlett took care of the details. As she shut down her laptop and collected her things, she heard Margolies’ fist hit his desk, a telltale sign of his infamous temper. Never one to miss a cue, she slipped out the door and headed to the subway stop, barely registering the glittering lights of Times Square, whose siren song had lured her to that concrete jungle in the first place.

Scene 3

             
Scarlett got home around 8:00 p.m. She had considered going back to Joe Allen or to Sardi’s to hear the industry buzz on the evening’s drama, but tomorrow was sure to be a big day and she needed to be ready for it.

             
She’d picked up take-out from the new Thai restaurant near her Upper West Side apartment. The studio apartment she rented was unimaginably small, despite being at the upper end of her price range, but it was perfect for her needs. She had never understood why anyone would spend time at home, with Manhattan just outside the door. She made a habit of spending as little time at home as possible, and not just because she generally hated being alone.

             
Tonight, though, she didn’t mind. She had a lot on her mind. She flipped on the news, in case there were any late-breaking updates on the Kanter situation, though she supposed there wasn’t much more to be said on the matter. She kept an eye on the coverage as she changed into cutoff sweat pants (her radiator had only two settings:
off
and
sweltering
) and brushed out her long hair, which had been tightly pinned up all day in her ongoing effort to look like a “serious” theater producer.

             
Scarlett clicked off the TV and picked up her phone to try her parents on the West Coast. They probably hadn’t heard the news. With the time difference, they’d just be getting home from work. Scarlett had been the first to introduce them to theater beyond the community playhouse, and they had embraced it and loved hearing of her Broadway adventures—at least the ones she was willing to tell. And theater wasn’t that much of a stretch for them, since her mom was a busy high-school teacher, and her dad a lawyer, both professions where theatrics could go a long way.

             
Her younger brother, Colin, had taken it a whole lot further. The theater bug bit him early, as it had Scarlett. By age ten he was donning costumes and appearing in weekly living-room productions put on by then-twelve-year-old Scarlett. Early productions included Colin starring as Maria in the
Sound of Music
, Dorothy in the
Wizard of Oz
, and Velma in
Chicago
, much to the admiration of their unconditionally loving parents and sometimes-horrified relatives. Now twenty-six, Colin was known on stage as “Queen Colleen” and was the toast of San Francisco’s Castro district.

             
No answer at home. She thought about calling Colin. He’d love that news. The suicide of
the
top theater critic was good gossip of the highest order. No matter to Colin that a man had died…it was showbiz! Colin always made Scarlett laugh. The carefully cultivated drama in his drag-queen circles always put her daily drama at work into perspective.

             
Scarlett’s phone lit up in her hand. The name
Lawrence
appeared on the screen, bringing an involuntary smile to her face. Lawrence was always a welcome diversion, though tonight he was probably looking for the inside scoop on the Kanter news, which she didn’t have.

Lawrence, at fifty years old, had over twenty years on Scarlett and fit the textbook description of a rich playboy. Nevertheless, he and Scarlett had hit it off almost immediately, and she often graced his arm at an opera gala or a cabaret evening at Feinstein’s or the Carlyle—events that would otherwise have been many thousands of dollars outside her budget. They always had a blast together, and, refreshingly for Scarlett, their relationship came with no strings attached.

“
Hello, Lawrence.”

“
You were on my mind, Gorgeous,” he crooned. Scarlett couldn’t help but be flattered by his attention, even though she was sure that he called each of the many women in his life
Gorgeous
, probably to cut down on the risk that he would use the wrong name.

“
Well, if you called for gossip about the Kanter suicide, you know as much as I do if you’ve seen tonight’s news.”

“
I just wanted to hear your voice,” he said. She smiled at the phone. He continued, “Though now that you mention it...”

“
Aha! See? I knew that was why you called. I know you so well.”

             
“You certainly do. If you come over, you could get to know me even better,” cooed Lawrence. He was never one for subtlety yet always in the most charming fashion.

             
“Not tonight,” she said, eyeing her sweat-pants-clad self in the mirror and her inviting bed. Such was their standard conversation, though her answer wasn’t always the same.

             
“You’ve got to give a guy credit for trying,” he said, unfazed. Then his tone changed. “But seriously, losing the top critic, that’s some big news. What does your boss have to say? He seemed to have Kanter wrapped around his little finger. The last show notwithstanding, Margolies has racked up quite the resume of good reviews.”

             
“I haven’t heard you complaining,” retorted Scarlett, avoiding the question, unwilling to gossip about her boss even to Lawrence. She may not like Margolies, but she was nothing if not professional.

             
“You know I love that nasty old man and every penny he’s earned me,” Lawrence conceded.

             
Scarlett had met Lawrence two shows ago, when he had invested in the Broadway revival of
Sweet Charity
, which Margolies had produced. To get a show onto Broadway required many millions of dollars which came from investors who were rich enough or crazy enough to gamble that a Broadway show would be a hit. For an art form like musical theater, where the end result was often a light evening of singing and dancing, the business side of it was anything but carefree. The stakes, risks, and dollar amounts were high.

             
Lawrence answered the call of
Sweet Charity's
“Hey, Big Spender” and invested a small fortune in the show. Fortunately for him, the
Sweet Charity
gamble paid off, as did several subsequent Broadway investments—which was not always the case for a Broadway show—and Lawrence became a regular in the Margolies office investing pool. He also became the unofficial “big spender” in Scarlett’s life.

             
Lawrence was a venture capitalist by day, having made his fortune during the tech industry boom. Venture capital investing was nearly identical to Broadway investing, although Broadway was a lot more fun. Lawrence was brilliant with money but immature when it came to women, like a kid in the candy shop of Manhattan. He was far from serious boyfriend material, but that suited Scarlett just fine.

             
Ironically, although Scarlett worked in a business that relied on massive gambles, in the heart department she played it very safe.

             
However, having a man or two in her life kept her from being lonely. Plus, she always enjoyed spending time with Lawrence, and he was more than happy to introduce her to influential people whom she would need to know if she was to eventually take over Margolies' office. It was a good fit for both of them.

             
“Are we still on for Friday night?” asked Scarlett, trying to wind down the conversation before he talked her into coming over after all. His penthouse across from Lincoln Center was only a few blocks away—an all-too-easy walk.

             
“Wouldn’t miss it, Gorgeous. We have 8:00 p.m. reservations at Orso, but let’s grab a drink at Bar Centrale first.”

             
She wasn’t a bit surprised at Lawrence’s plans for their evening. Both Bar Centrale and Orso were great places to see and be seen in Broadway circles, and Lawrence liked rubbing shoulders with the glitterati of New York theater. Not a night went by that you wouldn’t see Broadway denizens wheeling and dealing—at least the ones who could afford it. Drinkers and diners paid a steep bill when they were lucky enough to snag a reservation at any of the prime real estate tables inside those restaurants.

             
“I’ll meet you there after work,” she said.

             
“Sweet dreams, Gorgeous.”

             
Scarlett hung up. She could picture Lawrence on his couch looking out over the city, probably contemplating who he should call next from his little black book. She may not have even been his first call of the night, which was fine by her; though she treasured her spot as the only theater person in his glamorous circle of jet-setting girlfriends.

             
She finished her take-out and got ready for bed. It was a rare evening when she found herself home alone at a reasonable hour, since most nights were filled with theater obligations late into the evening. It was necessary that she keep up with not only the latest Broadway shows but also other performances and theater events around town. One never knew where the next big show or rising star would come from. She pulled her computer onto her lap to check the last of the day’s emails. Theater people were famously nocturnal, she had learned, in the city that never sleeps!

             
There was nothing particularly urgent in her emails. She had learned long ago that working in a business that traded on theatrics meant that
urgent
and
crisis
were relative terms. In tonight’s inbox, there was no
real
drama. Scarlett had a sneaking suspicion that the real drama was yet to come.

Scene 4

             
Candace Gold’s driver dropped her off in front of the
New York Banner
an hour early the next morning. It was an impressive building, recently renovated for the bastion of journalistic excellence. Candace’s entire thirty-year career had been at the
Banner
, though only half of it had been in the illustrious position of Arts and Culture editor. The
Banner
had recently moved into shiny new offices on 6
th
Avenue, and that’s where Candace could be found nearly every day of the year, ever since her marriage and the rest of her personal life had circled and then gone down the drain, nineteen years earlier.

             
No great loss, she thought daily.

             
Her low heels echoed through the empty lobby and aggravated the pounding in her head—the result of another nasty hangover. She blamed her drinking habit on her high-stress job. Bourbon was her one comfort and only vice. After all, it was a tough time to be in journalism, and she hadn’t clawed her way to a top spot at the top paper only to be a victim of the changing times.

             
Newspaper sales were down, online media was on the rise, and amateur reviewers and social media sites were putting critics out of business. Well, most critics. She had kept her theater critic, Ken Kanter, at the top of his game. Hiring him twenty years ago had been no accident, and Ken had eloquently stepped into the shoes of past
Banner
critics—the so called “butchers of Broadway”—ever since. Now he was gone.

             
Dead.

             
The articles and obituaries were already in the works. Her staff had probably worked through the night—not for the first time. She had kept an eye on their efforts via email, although she had been in no state to show up in person last night. But they didn’t need to know that.