Schultz turning from the bar to go backstage. Pushing halfway through the smoky crowd. A figure blocking his way.
“You’re Schultz.”
“That’s right.”
“You want to sell this show, kid. I’ll give you a good price right now tonight before the reviews come out in the morning and I’ll take it straight to Broadway.”
“No deal.”
“What’s the matter. I’ll give you more than the show’s worth. It could be worth nothing tomorrow.”
“It’s worth a fortune tonight and it will be priceless in the morning.”
“You know who I am don’t you.”
“Yeah I know who you are. Joe Jewels.”
“Well what’s the matter kid, you like taking risks or something.”
“That’s right.”
Schultz turning away and heading straight into the ever smiling resplendent Ambassador with his towering black lady looming behind him.
“Ah my dear gladiator. A truly magnificent evening. I am so happy to see that all the hard work you do casting and auditioning at your house has produced such marvellous results.”
“You’re too kind, Your Excellency.”
“Ah let me introduce you to my friend.”
“How do you do honey.”
Schultz shaking hands with this long ebony armed amazon as she answered in an unfamiliar drum beat rhythmic tongue.
“Zeek geek goo bug ding doo.”
“And the same to you, honey you’ve said it all.”
Like as if the pair of them had nothing whatever to do with the show, Binky and wife slipped silently away as did his Lordship and his Countess who were catching a train to the country.
“Ah a splendid evening maestro which both I, my dear wife and his and her Royal Graces enjoyed thoroughly.”
“Jesus, Binky you fuckers you’re completely abandoning me.”
“Ah I wouldn’t put it quite as subtly as that Schultz. It’s simply that domesticity calls.”
Al with four tables booked at the Savoy. And with marzipan and crushed rum truffles adhering to the soles of his shoes and his heart beating again as usual, he went backslapping and shepherding his party of show backers growing larger by the second out to his and their limousines.
“Sigmund, put it there, a great show. See you at the Savoy.”
“Thanks Al.”
Schultz from dressing room to dressing room squeezing between the backstage visitors, his head popping in the doors. At least tonight unlike some other nights, it’s not like a morgue backstage. Maybe I stopped the curtain calls too soon. Fuck it. Four should be enough for anybody. Some people don’t know when to stop milking the adulation. It’s like I got to be a father to a bunch of children. Wiping noses. Shaking hands. Waving. Thumbs up.
“You were great. Just great. Keep up the good work kids. I love you all.”
At the Debutant’s dressing room. Schultz calling out over the heads of her bubbling bevy of admirers. The Debutant making her way through to Schultz. Between all these smart assed smoothie men about town.
“O Mr. Schultz was I alright really.”
“You were sensational, honey believe me. Sensational.”
The Debutant kissing Schultz on the cheeks as his hand headed straight down to cup around her arse, one of the most magnificent ever to go waltzing spotlighted on a London stage. And she, dear girl, threw her pelvis forward to concuss this producer upon his now famous and instantly tingling cock. Schultz at this split second of appropriate moments urgently whispering in her musky aromatic ear.
“Honey, maybe after the matinee on a pouring rainy afternoon we could together just have a little food sent in and talk about your future here in your dressing room.”
“Maybe we could, Mr. Schultz.”
“Jesus sweetie pie I could listen forever to your melodious voice.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”
Declining all lifts and invitations in the direction of various parties, Schultz making his way back up the private stair past his box and along the shadowy passage towards the lobby. Stopping to look at a photograph of a fabled female previous star on the wall. Jesus nobody ever puts up a picture or a statue to a producer. Fuckers won’t even let me into Who’s Who.
“How dare you be just standing here, hiding. Deserting us and my mother like that. After she’s had such a terrible shock and ordeal. We’ve been waiting out front of the theatre for seventeen minutes.”
“Honey don’t you know I got to go backstage to congratulate the stars. What are you crazy or something, you don’t know about that.”
“I’m hungry. My mother’s hungry. And we want to go and eat. Now.”
“Eat. Go eat. Eat. Go get the fuck out now. Right out that way is the door. Go eat. With the hippo. I’ll order two tons of hay sent to the Savoy for her.”
“I could scratch your face. You’re hysterical and rude.”
“That’s right. Fucking right I am. After I’ve been sweating my balls off for months to see this night happen. All you and that whale can think of is to fucking eat. Then go and fucking eat.”
“I will scratch your face.”
“Like fuck you will honey.”
Pricilla lunging out. Schultz side stepping back as the claws whistled down past his cheeks. And the open palm of his left hand hooked upwards in a resounding slap on Pricilla’s face. She stands glaring. Groans. And as usual topples. And lays in a heap at my feet. Christ while there’s a distant sound of happy voices and glasses clinking in the bar. Holy shit. Blood. Trickling out of her nose. I did it now. Killed her. What the fuck did I have to go and do this for. Jesus to last in this business you got to speak with a languid voice. If somebody sees us. It will end me up again in exactly the wrong kind of publicity for the show.
Schultz dragging Pricilla by the arms along the carpet and into his private box and closing the door. This is just like a murder. How do you dispose of a body in such a blazing red dress.
“Honey if you can hear me, don’t move while I get a bucket of fresh water to throw on you.”
Schultz rushing backstage down his own little empty cul de sac corridor to his cubbyhole dressing room. Filling a fire bucket with a glass ladling water out of the basin. Stopping to examine his face in front of the mirror. In this silence. His Lordship says he has aunts living quietly in the country who have the art of slowing their lives down till they are just ticking over so that nothing ever distresses them. And me with the fuses blown in Arabesque Street, pissing and missing the toilet bowl. Drenched my box of paper handkerchiefs on the floor. That I later go to blow my nose with. And get a face full of urine. Holy christ when is there going to be a trace of contentment in my life. When this could be my moment of triumph. Of dancing on the waves. A big deal for two seconds before I’m swallowed up in the deep. Sometimes you wonder why you do it all. You know it’s because people want to always reach out and touch something that seems glamourously beyond their own lives. When they turn and maybe see you. Debonair, calm as a glacier. Gee that guy in the expensive sunglasses, he did all this. Gave us a real glittering alive magic. Yeah that’s right you fuckers. I did. Against all god damn odds let me tell you. While everybody else was just twiddling their thumbs wondering if they should fart or belch or something. I’ve been playing sudden death roulette dialling telephones. Every moment ten seconds away from disaster. Funny now how finally you don’t care if people want to come touch you on the arm for your magic. Not until they stop wanting to. Then, Jesus, all over again you want them to. Especially beautiful women. Sure, touch me. Go ahead. But unless you’re gorgeous don’t smudge the fabric. Of Sigmund Franz Schultz. Impresario par excellence. Major fucking domo of the West End. Holy jeeze I’m going loco. Looking like this at myself in the mirror. Shaking a fist and talking to myself. With a pregnant wife laid out on her arse.