Showbiz, A Novel Page 6

  She hesitated, but she seemed to be seriously considering his plan. He hadn’t lost his touch.

  She wrapped her arms around him and he stroked her hair as he calculated exactly how long he’d have to stick around.

  Scene 14

  The Margolies office was quiet the next morning. Scarlett had arrived later than usual, but Margolies wasn’t in yet. She vaguely remembered that the intern had taken the day off.

  Margolies was likely over at the theater across the street. Rehearsals for Olympus were starting to get intense and Margolies was spending more and more time there, terrorizing the cast and crew in an effort to make sure his ambitious visions for the show were fully realized, as well as ensuring the already-astronomical costs didn’t get further out of hand.

  Scarlett was supposed to be finalizing invites for the media event/investor reception she was organizing for the next month, a sort of “go team” event designed to build even more buzz around Olympus. But her thoughts kept straying to her date last Friday. If she wasn’t careful, she could fall hard for Reilly. They had unmistakable chemistry and had practically closed down the restaurant.

  Remembering their goodnight kiss, or more accurately, good night kisses, as he put her in a cab home, was enough to stir the butterflies in her stomach again. Scarlett had been accused by more than one potential suitor in the past that her love affair with Broadway didn’t leave room for a boyfriend. For better or worse, when it came down to it, her career had always come first. There was no arguing with the fact that Broadway was an all-consuming, twenty-four-hour-a-day lifestyle choice.

  With Reilly, however, it was different. He had the same passion for showbiz that she did. Instead of putting them at odds with each other, it was clear after one date that their mutual devotion to theater only brought them closer together. The only thing stopping her from falling into pure bliss was the nagging suspicion that there was more to the rigged review story than Reilly had revealed. Could he have been fishing for information that she might have? Or was she simply becoming cynical?

  It had certainly been news to her that those rumors were floating around. But maybe he was just being an overzealous reporter.

  Margolies wouldn’t stand for rigged reviews. He had too much money on the line. He is Broadway, she thought. Unless...

  Her boss’s ethics left much to be desired, but bribing critics seemed a step too far, even for him. That would mean his entire career was built on corruption. He’d employed thousands of people on Broadway stages and was one of the single largest drivers of the largest economic tourist engine in New York. It just couldn’t be true.

  Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Reilly: When can I see you again?

  Her stomach fluttered again, but she forced herself to turn her mind back to the matter at hand. Could Reilly really be on to something? If it were true that Margolies had been bribing Kanter all along, she was probably the one person in the whole world who could find out. She stood up abruptly. There was only one way to know for sure, short of confronting Margolies directly.

  She walked into Margolies’ empty office to have a look. If he had an organizational system besides Scarlett herself, it was unclear. She made it her habit every couple of weeks to sit down with him and the intern to sort through the piles and get everything filed away neatly in the row of filing cabinets lining his office wall.

  At the moment, his imposing desk was littered with papers: the usual collection of file folders, sales reports, contract drafts, and ad comps that Scarlett had handed off to him in the prior days and weeks. The only uncluttered space in the whole office was a long shelf with Margolies’ pristine collection of Tony Awards.

  Feeling guilty already, she walked around to his side of the desk. It was uncharted territory for her. And she couldn’t resist sitting in his chair. So this is how the world looks to Broadway’s biggest producer, she thought. I could get used to this. She eyed the file drawers under the desk. She couldn’t guess what he kept in there, since she managed the filing system. She gently pulled open the large file drawer.

  Her phone buzzed on her desk in the other room and made her jump. Reilly again?

  Not deterred from her mission, however, she started thumbing through the documents in his desk drawer. They appeared to be bank statements . A quick scan revealed nothing out of the ordinary. They looked like several years of monthly statements.

  While the theaters collected the money from the Broadway box offices for distribution, Scarlett knew that Margolies kept several accounts for investor funds as well as development funds for future shows. Banking wasn’t in her job description. Scarlett helped manage the budgets, but Margolies handled the money himself.

  Out of curiosity, she pulled out the file of statements from the past year and thumbed through for the months in which they’d had Broadway openings. There had been three openings from the Margolies office during the past year—an ambitious number. Two had received raves and were still playing successfully, and the third, Thelma & Louise, had come and gone.

  She ran her finger down the list of deposits. Nothing raised any red flags in her mind. A quick glance at the withdrawals seemed in line as well. She turned to the next month with an opening night. Similarly uneventful, except... During the opening week of both shows, there had been a $10,000 cash withdrawal. Scarlett knew the opening-week budgets well. Any show expenses wouldn’t be coming from these accounts. She checked the third show month and found the same withdrawal. She quickly paged through the other non-show months. No sign of the withdrawal.

  It can’t be, she thought. And, anyway, if they were payouts, why did the third show get panned? It didn’t make sense. She wondered how she could ask Margolies without revealing that she had been snooping. She closed the file and quickly put it back, feeling disloyal to the man who was making her career and the careers of so many others.

  On her way out of his office, she pushed closed one of the file drawers along the wall that had been ajar. It bounced back open. She paused to see what the problem was. It was a file cabinet that she maintained. It had files for every investor over the years, with current show investors in front and past years’ investors in the back. It was records of their contracts, checks, and correspondence.

  She saw Lawrence’s file, one of the thickest, alongside all the other investors’, most of whom she knew well by now. Many of them had thick files of their own, since Margolies’ Midas touch brought them back, show after show. More than a few stalwarts had been faint of heart about Olympus, however, worried that the unprecedented costs were just too risky an investment. Still, they had convinced several of the regulars to invest.

  An unmarked file caught her eye. It was sticking up, keeping the cabinet from closing. That’s strange, she thought. Maybe the intern got lazy. She pulled it out to see what was inside.

  It contained copies of checks made out to Olympus, LLC. That wasn’t unusual. Every file around it contained the same thing. But every file would not contain three checks for $3,000,000.00 each. The name on the check, M____ Corporation, was a company she didn’t recognize. A new $9 million investor seemed like something she would have heard about. How strange.

  Just then she heard the front door of the office open. Not sure what she had just found, she slid it back into the file cabinet and closed the drawer firmly.

  “Is it filing day already?” Margolies asked, coming up behind her.

  Is it my imagination, thought Scarlett, or does he sound suspicious?

  “Uh, no, I was just double-checking an investor’s address for the reception invites,” she lied.

  “Did you find it?” he asked. His eyes were boring into hers.

  Does he always look at me this way? she wondered. All of a sudden, she couldn’t remember.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Where is what?”

&n
bsp; “The address you said you were looking for!” he responded with frustration.

  Her hands were empty. She felt her cheeks flush.

  “I was just, uh, confirming the address. I had it right after all. Just wanted to make sure we didn’t miss anyone. The reception is shaping up to be one of the biggest events of the season, boss.”

  “Thanks for the news flash,” he said sarcastically as he sat down behind his desk. “Close the door behind you.”

  She needed to get her wits about her.

  She checked her phone to see who had called earlier. It had been Margolies. No message. She turned her focus back to the event preparations. Half an hour later, Margolies strode out of the office without a glance her way and with what she was sure was the unmarked file folder under his arm.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t realized until then that she had been so tense. She decided to go out to grab coffee. Get some fresh air. Think. At the door she paused, turned back to Margolies’ office, and grabbed the file of the past year’s bank statements. She quickly ran them through the rickety copy machine (the bane of each new intern’s existence) and stashed the copies in her laptop bag before re-filing the originals in his desk. With that, she walked out the door.

  Scene 15

  Reilly opened the pizza box on his kitchen table with a flourish.

  “Voila! Dinner is served.”

  It had already been a busy week so far for both of them, so they had mutually decided to forego another formal date in favor of a quiet evening at Reilly’s midtown apartment.

  “I see you slaved in the kitchen all day,” she said with a smile.

  Reilly loved that smile. He had been thinking of little else since their last date.

  “So it seems we have reason to celebrate tonight. I saw the article on playbill.com that Swan Song got picked up by the Manhattan Theatre Workshop. How’d you swing that, Madam Producer Extraordinaire? That’s a pretty major deal.”

  “Why, thank you!” she said, looking pleased with herself. “They heard about the show when it was being developed up at the Pinter Theater Center, and a last-minute spot opened up in their season. We got lucky.”

  “You’re being modest. I’m sure they had a million shows that could have gone into that spot.”

  “Well, I’d gotten to know the artistic director, and he and I have been talking about the show for a few months now. He fell in love with the it, like the rest of us. The timing worked out for us. We start auditions next week, if you can believe it. It’s all happening so fast! I can’t wait for you to see it.”

  “From everything I’ve heard it’s amazing.”

  “Let’s just say I’m very proud. And thrilled for the Jeremys.”

  “It’s certainly a great way to kick off your solo producing career.”

  “Speaking of careers. You’ve had some big news, too. Are you ready for your interview at the Banner?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be. Try me!” he said, unwilling to fully admit how desperately he wanted—no, needed—the chief critic job.

  “So tell me, Mr. Mitchell.” Scarlett imitated a formal interviewer voice. “Why do you want to be the theater critic at our hallowed institution?” She continued but started to giggle. “Do you have a death wish or simply a penchant for being truly evil?”

  “It didn’t say anything in the job description about being evil.”

  “Oh, come on. Or were you planning to go from lethal gossip columnist to ‘Reilly the Friendly Critic’? Please.”

  “Are you going to let me answer the question?”

  “By all means. Continue.”

  “Well, Candace... Or should I call her ‘Ms. Gold’?”

  “Better keep it formal.”

  “Well, Ms. Gold, it has come to my attention that the critic’s role has devolved over the years to the point where it’s not about the art but about how vicious the criticism can be of any given show. As the Banner’s critic, my goal would be to bring a fresh, unbiased voice to the table. Let the shows stand on their own merit.”

  “Isn’t that what’s already happening? Hey, are you still thinking there’s something fishy going on with rigged reviews?” The subject hadn’t come up in any of their phone conversations during the week. “Ms. Gold may not like what you’re implying.”

  Reilly refilled their glasses of wine and went over to the couch. Scarlett followed. The cold rain on the window blurred the city lights outside Reilly’s one-bedroom apartment, but inside it was cozy. Scarlett curled up on the couch.

  “It’s nice to be here with you like this,” he said, their interview prep forgotten for the moment. “But I promise I’ll take you out on the town next time.”

  “Do you hear me complaining? This is perfect. I feel like I know you better already.” She gestured to the crowded shelves of books lining the walls.

  Reilly loved reading almost as much as he loved writing. He was pleased that she had read several of his favorites, although his taste was more eclectic than most: theater books, history, fiction, philosophy, travel.

  “This is me. The mask comes off,” he joked.

  “I like what I see.”

  “So do I,” he said as he leaned over and kissed her. She moved closer to him and their kiss deepened. He pulled her to his side on the couch, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I could get used to this,” she said.

  He smiled and kissed the top of her head. He had all but forgotten that he had originally asked her out to get information on her boss. Since getting to know her, that hadn’t seemed nearly as important as figuring out how to keep her right there, by his side, for as long as possible. He hadn’t been looking for it, and yet it felt like what he’d always wanted.

  Scene 16

  Candace spun her chair away from her desk and gazed out the window, rubbing her temples with her fingers. Interviews could be exhausting, and she'd had a full day of them. Even weeding out all but the best resumes, there had still been a long list of candidates. Her editor had taken on several of the interviews, since they needed to move quickly, but she had handled the bulk of them.

  There was a tap on the door, and she reluctantly turned back to her desk.

  “Any keepers today?” her boss asked. “This woman seemed like finalist material.” He tossed one resume onto her desk and dropped a larger stack on the floor along the wall with other similar stacks of resumes.

  “What’s her story?”

  “Fashion critic. She’s been bureau chief in Paris for the past few years. Sounds like she could bring a unique voice. We’ve never had a major female critic here.”

  “I remember reading her resume. Let’s add her to the mix.”

  “Where does that put us as far as finalists?”

  “Well, we have our junior critic, that’s one. This woman, two. That blogger we liked could be three, and the guy from Chicago. That leaves one last spot.” The thought that the interviews would be coming to an end was cheering her up.

  “Let’s hope we find our last finalist in next week’s group,” said her editor, looping his thumbs through his suspenders. “I can’t tell you how excited the higher ups are. This should buy us at least two months of bonus publicity as we roll out the candidate reviews. The readers are going crazy for the idea.”

  “So are the producers, I’m afraid,” she said sarcastically. “And not in a good way.”

  “Well, despite what they seem to think, we don’t write for producers, we write for readers,” he said, quoting their office mantra.

  If only that were true, thought Candace. At least it would be from now on. Despite Margolies’ best efforts, she hadn’t fallen for his tricks that time around. She didn’t need anything from him, and he’d get nothing, much less another corrupt critic, from her this time.

  S
cene 17

  Scarlett decided to walk home from the office. She needed to clear her head. To think. The crisp, dry air was refreshing, and New Yorkers were clearly beginning to come out of their winter hibernation.

  Her week had been going so well. She’d had another amazing date with Reilly. The investor reception was ready to go. Margolies was in a better mood than usual. But what she’d found - or rather, hadn’t found - in her Google search at the end of the day had left her spooked.

  She had forgotten until that afternoon, when she saw Margolies leaving the office with that same unmarked file, that she had meant to look up the M____ Corporation, to find out just who it was that was coming in as their major investor. The company hadn’t come up in her reception invites, and she had a hunch that asking Margolies directly might not be the best first step.

  What she’d discovered on Google made her wonder what Margolies had gotten himself into. She thought about calling Reilly as she made her way on foot past the sparkling Time Warner center, but she knew she couldn't. Though she trusted Reilly, she was careful to keep the proprietary details of her work life separate from their relationship. Her suspicions were exactly the kind of thing that Reilly would want to run with in his column.

  She found herself on the steps of Lincoln Center, looking toward Lawrence's penthouse. She hadn’t seen him since their fun evening a few weeks back, yet she suddenly realized that he was exactly who she could talk to that night.

  She sent a quick text: Can I come up? It wouldn't be the first time she'd made an impromptu visit to his place for a chat or a bite on her way home.

  An immediate reply. He always had the latest and greatest gadgets: Course! Just finishing a mtg.

  She crossed the busy intersection, weaving through the crowds that were making their way to the opera and ballet at the Met. Lawrence’s white-gloved doorman waved her through the lavish, chandelier-lit lobby as she trod the familiar path to his elevator—which was practically the same size as her entire apartment. Oh, to be that rich, thought Scarlett.