Stuart Kaminsky: Show Business is Murder

“No, it doesn’t, David.”

Miranda stood with her brutal back to him, staring out at the fog that made their rooftop seem adrift. From the river came the nasal honk of a foghorn.

“But it does, love. You’ll see.” He’d done what he had to do.

The kettle let out a shrill shriek, and he shut it down. He turned to Miranda. “I forgot to grind the beans.” But Miranda was gone.

His glasses were stained. He took them off and held them under the faucet, rinsing. The water stained the porcelain a rusty color. He dried the glasses thoroughly and put them on again. He saw with such clarity now. It was amazing.

Back to sorting. Here was the note on the flap of Sardi’s matchbook. Twenty-five. Silver . Where was his Mont Blanc? He went back to the bedroom. Miranda was in bed, pretending. He stood watching her.

He’d done the right thing. Planned it down to the last minute, waited till Patrick left for school. She’d given him no choice. He had to put a stop to it.

It was a while before David remembered why he’d come to the bedroom. His pen was in the inside pocket of the dark blue Hugo Boss. In the kitchen again, he crossed out “silver” and wrote “diamonds.” Diamonds for Miranda.

MIRANDA. SHE WASthe most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. With his legal pad ready, David stood in the dark theater in front of the orchestra pit beside Bob Fosse as the girl dancers auditioned for Chicago . Chita Rivera and Gwen Verdon were already set for the leads, so this was chorus. But it was not news that Fosse was a control freak, right down to the last bit of costume, to the understudies in particular because Gwen was no kid. She’d be out a lot the way she was when she was in Sweet Charity, and that was nine years ago.

Bobby, Buddha-eyed, arms folded, watched as his assistant showed the first group of dancers the combinations, then stepped back and signaled to the accompanists and the dancers began.

She was a head taller than any of the others and another chorus dancer might have gotten lost in the back row. But not Miranda. She gave off a kind of glow. A blonde iridescence on long, elegant legs.

David looked over at Bobby. No reaction. Was he blind?

When the dancers finished, Bobby said, “Thank you.” The dancers felt the rejection, took it personally. David could see the slump in the shoulders as they left the stage. But not Miranda. She edged out as the next group of dancers came on and took their places.

Bobby said, “That one.”

“The tall blonde?”

“Yes.”

So like Bobby, David thought, as he raced for the stairs to the wings. He liked to make them suffer a little before he gave them the good news.

She was on the street, her heavy bag hanging from her shoulder, when David caught up to her. “He wants you,” he told her.

Her eyes were a deep gray-blue, confused now. Her brows pale as her hair. “Who?”

“Bobby. He wants you. I need your name, and your agent’s name, address, and phone number.” I need you, he thought.

“I don’t have an agent,” she said. “I haven’t been here long enough.” It was just starting to sink in. “He wants me?”

“Yes. Rehearsals start in four weeks. Are you available?”

She began laughing, a deep throaty laugh, which is when David fell for her big time.

“My name is Miranda Donnelly,” she said.

She gave him her phone number. “Find an agent and get back to me,” David said. “You should have an agent, although the dance contracts are usually minimum. I’ll find you an agent. Leave it to me. You’re going to be a star. You need someone who knows how to do it. And I’ll help you.”

She was waiting, looking at him expectantly. “I don’t know who you are,” she said.

He felt himself flush. “David Sharp,” he said. “I’m the assistant stage manager.”

She thrust out her hand and smiled at him. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, David Sharp. Thank you for the good news.”

DAVID SET THEmatchbook cover down. Twenty-five years. He would shower her with diamonds. Yes. It would be really big. He’d take over Sardi’s for the night. Let’s see, who owed him? Half the world owed him, though they wouldn’t admit it.

“I don’t want diamonds,” she said. “I just want it to be like it was.”

“I do, too. And it will be, you’ll see. I’ll make it right.”

“Oh, David, you always say that.” She covered her mouth.

It had been wonderful then, when they were both beginning. Fosse, the brilliant Bob Fosse, had created a number just for her.

“He saw me as… what did he call me, David?”

“His perfect instrument.”

The show was a big hit. And David became production stage manager, calling the cues. And after the show every night, Miranda was his. All his.

They were married the week before rehearsals began on Bobby’s new all-dance musical Dancin’, with Miranda as lead dancer. This was when David decided he had to break out, become a producer.

He had a connection-the father of his Rutgers roommate was president of the teamsters N. Y. local. The connection greased the way for David to get an apprenticeship in ATPAM, the Association of Theatrical Press Agents and Managers. His short term goal was to become a general manager. He would learn the business of producing this way, then do it himself. And he would do it better than anyone had done it before. There’d be no stopping him.

“You were so intense,” Miranda said. “Sometimes it frightened me.”

“You were getting what you wanted, why shouldn’t I?”

David studied the scraps of paper in front of him on the table. It was something specific he remembered making a note of yesterday or the day before.

Their first apartment. It had been in this building. A small one bedroom, third floor rear, right next to the elevator. Dark as hell.

“Now look what we have,” he said.

“A penthouse. Sixteen floors up. You wanted a penthouse.”

“So did you. Who’s the genius in this family? Who’s the deal maker? Who gave you the best?”

“David…”

“Yes. David.” He liked to hear her say it. She had that throaty voice. She was so beautiful and she was his. He reached for her now and she slipped away from him.

He went to the sink and splashed water on his face. He had to call the office. There were things to be done. He hit the direct dial button.

“David Sharp Productions,” a strange voice said.

“Put Betty on.” Betty Carbone. Not much of a looker, but a great gal. Loyal. When he began producing plays, he made her his general manager. She’d been with him for years. She was like family. He loved her like a buddy. He trusted her.

“Who is calling please?”

“The man who’s fucking overpaying your salary,” he yelled.

The girl was flustered. “Oh, oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Sharp.”

Betty came on. “David?”

“Listen, Betty, there’s something I have to do.”

“Yes? Is everything okay?”

“We’re working things out. And Betty?”

“Yes?”

“I love ya, pal.” He hung up the phone.

Where was he? Oh, yes. He was sorting his papers. Ticket stubs. So many. They wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else, but it made sense to him. It was their life together.

Miranda went on the road with Dancin’ and he flew out to see her every weekend.

“I loved touring,” she said. “We’d go dancing after the show. I met so many people. It was so much fun.”

“I hated not seeing you every day. I hated that you were with them.”

“Them, David? Who is them?” He caught the exasperation in her voice. Didn’t she know he adored her?

“Anyone you were with when you were not with me.”