T. Bunn - Winner Take All

“Dale is a fool only in his selection of mates. Whatever else he might enter into, he would win.”

They were dancing, really. A step up, a step back. Watching and gauging and neither speaking of what was just below the surface. “You warned Dale away from Ms. Brandt, or tried to. Yet you repeatedly pressed the Met to hire her.”

“Really, Ms. Stansted. This should be obvious. I was proposing the Met take on a talented singer. Not join her in unholy union. Our senior conductor disagreed. Erin was not invited. End of story.”

“There was no other reason?”

A vague shifting of the currents behind his gaze. “What are you suggesting?”

Kirsten danced away by lowering her gaze. She asked the next question to the hands in her lap. “What about the child?”

A longish pause was by far the clearest answer he had given thus far. “What about her?”

Before she could decide how to respond, the phone rang. She lifted her gaze to find him inspecting her, head cocked to one side, eyes squinted in tight disdain. Finally he reached for the phone. “Lloyd.” A moment, then, “You wish to know what I do with my time these days, Ms. Stansted? Behold. This is the budget director for our new production of Tosca .” He punched the speaker button and declared, “You have thirty seconds, Stanley. I have a visitor.”

“It’s star chamber time,” the sharply accented New Yorker declared. “They’re going for the jugular.”

“From the maestro’s agitation, I take it this means they’re after your budget again.”

“Last spring they whittled a quarter million extra for the first production by that woman with the name like a poisonous creeping vine. Now they’re back for the rest.”

“I’m sure I can find you another hundred thousand or so from somewhere.”

“It’s not enough, big guy. Not this time. Word is she’s after another half a mil.”

Kedrick could not hide the shock. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“They’re sucking me dry, I tell you. I’ve got sets that haven’t been redone since trench warfare was in vogue. Last rehearsal the soprano broke through the top stair, did a balancing act long enough to hit an F above high C, then crashed to the floor.”

“This is utterly unacceptable,” Kedrick snapped. “We have put off new Tosca sets far too long already.”

“You’re telling me. Imagine if it’d been Placido under her. We’d have made headlines all over the globe. Diva makes Domingo marmalade. But they’re so far behind schedule, only some serious money will bandage the wound.”

Kedrick checked his calendar. “They’re seven weeks from opening!”

“Tell me.”

“All right. You want me to call the director. What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

“Yes, yes, yes. But what bits of the truth?”

“The truth I can’t say.”

“In other words, you want me to play the butcher’s boy.” Another silence. “I had always thought my swan song would leave them in tears, but of a rather different sort.”

“You’ll do it?”

“Of course, dear boy. Have I ever let you down?” Lloyd hit the disconnect, then immediately buzzed his secretary. “Get me Barry Schonfeld.”

“I’m not certain he’s in the building, Mr. Kedrick.”

“I didn’t ask for his whereabouts. I said get him!” He hammered the disconnect, swiveled his chair to the window, and sat feasting upon his upper lip. As he waited, he said idly, “Popular operas like Tosca bring in the dollars. New radical pieces keep a house on the artistic and critical map. The problem is, you get directors and artistic designers who have won their stripes doing Hollywood sets or theatrical numbers with twice our budget and half our stage dimensions. Every new production is a tournament between the artistic director and the budget committee. When it moves into rehearsals, the conductor’s ego is added to this potent mix. It’s a wonder we don’t see bloodletting more often.”

“You truly live for this,” Kirsten observed.

He turned and stared at her, clearly wondering what she had heard. Then his secretary buzzed through with “I have Mr. Schonfeld on line three.”

“Thank you.” His hand hovered over the receiver, beset by indecision, before hitting hit the speaker button. “Barry, I have been asked to insert your nether regions into the fryer.”

A laconic voice replied, “Everything’s under control, Kedrick.”

“Quite the contrary, from what I hear.”

“Don’t tell me Stanley’s gotten to you with his woe and agony routine.”

“I could build a house in the Hamptons for what your set is costing. Not to mention the fact that your designer is six weeks late and a mil over budget. Why? Because you contracted the same designer who demolished our budget last year!”

“You have a point. I’ll take a personal look at how we allocate this overspend.”

“Allocate? Allocate? ” Kedrick’s ire lifted him from the chair. “You’re seven weeks from your opening night! Fire the woman! Sue her! Burn her at the stake!”

A horrified silence. Then, “This is Louella Rhyther you’re talking about. She’s the most famous set designer in LA.”

“She won’t be when this goes down! She’ll be toast!”

“She wants another week.”

“Of course she does. The closer we come to our final deadline the more we’ll be willing to throw money at her problem!”

A sudden case of nerves oozed from the speaker. “Apparently she was slowed down by a severely sprained ankle.”

“Oh. Dropped her wallet, did she?”

“She’s splendid, Kedrick. The best.”

“I find her an absolute shambolic mess, if you must know. To have you say otherwise leaves me questioning your own abilities.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, the board can hardly be expected to maintain a strong rapport with a director whose judgment they question.”

There was an audible gulp. “I’ll handle it.”

“You really must be fierce with her about this deadline. And if she balks even by a half hour …”

“Yes?”

“Fire her. Or I shall personally fire you .” He punched the button and declared, “No doubt our famous new director will now give birth to a nine-pound ulcer.”

Kirsten rose to her feet. The smoke and mirrors were complete about this man. She would gain nothing more here. “Thank you for your time.”

“Go home, Ms. Stansted. That’s my advice to you. Marry your nice little lawyer friend, raise some beautiful children, forget there is a big world out there beyond the confines of what you find comfortable.” He smirked a superior farewell. “Leave these other matters to those of us who understand how the world truly works.”

It was not until Marcus was turning into his drive that he finally managed to get an answer at one of the man’s numbers. “Dale? It’s Marcus.”

“I can’t talk now.”

“This is important. Vital.”

“Oh, and this isn’t? You think selling my house for a million less than it cost me to build is fun? Or maybe how I’m cashing out my entire portfolio and losing almost as much as I’m getting?”

“Dale, listen to me.”

“No, Marcus. The time for listening is over. Kedrick was right. The case was hopeless from the start. There’s only one way to get my baby girl back and that’s what I’m doing.”

“You’re right.”

“You’re not talking me around, I’m going ahead with this …” Marcus’ words finally sank home. “What?”

“The case was a nowhere job to begin with. All it did was bring them close enough to the brink for us to have this shot.” Marcus gave it a moment, then said, “Are you with me now?”