Schultz abandoning his bucket and rushing back to his box with a glass of water. Cleaners now picking up the cellophane wrapping and paper cups in the empty theatre. Pricilla’s mother’s dismantled seat still sitting out in the middle of the aisle. Sound of people still drinking in the bars. Jesus, who’s this in the passage way ahead. Might have already discovered the corpse. It’s the fireman on duty.
“Well Mr. Schultz. It’s going to be a hit. I can al ways tell. By the quality of the clapping.”
“You really think so.”
“No doubt about it.”
The box deserted. Schultz drinking his glass of water. Where’s that bitch gone. Probably screaming to her mother I murdered her. O Jesus I was just beginning to feel a glow of hope. In this great theatre. The luxurious brocaded fabric on the walls. Where I could be ensconced for years doing nothing but screwing the Debutant and counting the gross. The nice embellished figures decorating the ceiling. The last of the perfume smell left by an applauding audience. The fireman says the quality of the clapping indicates a smasheroo. When Jesus I nearly hired half of it. Uncle Werb used to say, what’s cheaper than doing it yourself. Getting somebody else to do it for less. Binky and his Lordship without a single emotion just come and go. Like they’re disowning me. Before we hardly said hello. As if it were their duty to vanish. Al at least saved me from the lawyers again. While at the same time trying to dump on my doorstep the whale who nearly stopped the show. The libeled member of the cast now is with a brand new Jewish girl friend with her brand new Jewish family flurrying about them. In this world it doesn’t take people two seconds to replace each other. There always comes a time in everybody’s life when you sit on the street curb weeping because of what someone recently indecently did to you.
Schultz stepping out into the evening air. Crossing the street in front of the theatre. Looking up at the lights and signs. There it all is. Come on all you suburban cunts, come to the show. Jesus and what’s this coming. A squad car. Bell clanging roaring down the street. Screeching to a stop. Four constables jumping out slamming doors rushing into the theatre. Jesus she did it. Called the Police. The fuckers are after me already.
Schultz retreating back into the shadows of the pub doorway. Lights of the theatre switching off. Limousine coming around the corner. Chased by fans. Magillacurdy. He’s got the Debutant. Stealing her right from under my nose. And she’s not shouting out the window she’s being kidnapped. Holy christ I got to slip away down around the corner. Like a pursued culprit. Right at the moment when I just might have a success. My mind goes wild at the thought of it. A fucking armoured yacht on the Riviera. In Monte Carlo. Have on board Lady Lullabyebaby. Provisions stacked down the hold. Escape to sea without a wife and her mother dragging me down sinking. Greta, Roxana and a few other of your naked chested things could be cook and crew. Sylvia and Herbie could wait on table. Serve me just like Sylvia suggests Herbie and I could make a meat sandwich of her. White slices from the front. Dark from the rear. While between courses, Lady Lullabyebaby and I could screw into eternity amidships.
Schultz heading south towards the river. Taxis and the odd limousine ferrying away the last of the theatre traffic. What a relief to be alone by myself. Without having to want to scream to everybody, hey for crying out loud will you just shut your ass for two seconds. Click of my heels on the cement. Telling me with each step through the fresh breezy air. That shit, this town could be mine. Mine. To wake up to in the morning. Having breathed in this London night. An intoxication nothing like it anywhere. Clapping still ringing in my ears. Even my own bravos I was shouting. I can’t hardly fucking well wait. All we need is fourteen rave reviews. The critics, Jesus they can’t just be that dumb to pan us.
Schultz cutting through the narrow familiar streets of Covent Garden. The soft sweet smell of vegetables and fruit. Trucks and lorries halted on the shiny cobblestone. Porters drinking tea and chomping on sandwiches at the kiosk in front of the great pillars holding up the church. In there they have plaques on the wall commemorating theatrical immortals. And holy shit all I can suddenly think of is those showbizz friends who are never heard of again. Vanished. Replaced by a whole new set of smart alec shits scurrying on the scene. Jesus even a poor son of a bitch director who was a theatrical household name. Saw him one freezing New York night shambling along Eighth Avenue. Shabby, stooped and old. While I was a few steps away leaving a Broadway show, glad handing under the marquee lights. And there he was, so cold, so lonely and abandoned. Like a leper you couldn’t go and touch. Even ghosts staying to the other side of the street, flapping their big aprons of death in the dust and grime all whorled up by a bitter icy wind. Jesus I swear I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t get myself to go to him. He was already so dead. That I just wanted to get the fuck out of there quick in a hurry. Even now it makes me walk faster by these bags of onions and sprouts. Down a dark Southampton Street. Into the gloomy nearly empty Strand.
Schultz turning right. The silvered front and green shining lights of the Savoy entrance. Stepping through the glass doors. Everything is prepared for privilege. Every little kid who’s growing up in America at least knows he can be President one day. In this fucking country you don’t get to be Prime Minister unless your father was.
Schultz halfway across the restaurant floor. As Al comes rushing forward. And a group of folk suddenly standing at their tables. Clapping. Schultz turning to look back over his shoulder. Faces grinning at him from other tables. Schultz stopping alarmed in his tracks. Jesus they’re clapping at me.
“Hey what are you Sigmund, the reluctant hero. Come on. Meet everybody.”
“Al what’s all the fuss.”
“Sigmund. We’ve all been waiting for you. Where’s your beautiful wife.”
“I don’t know I thought she was with you.”
“No she went to find you. Well anyway Sigmund. This is an important night. That we all want as investors to fondly remember.”
“Al, unless they make a profit, people forget historically touching moments. And there’s no proof yet of a profit.”
“Mr. Cynic once more.”
“All this is ever going to be to me, Al, is a nostalgic explosion down memory lane. Which I hope has left my balls still between my legs.”
“O.K. well if it’s not too much trouble then, drag your testicles over and come and sit down.”
“Jesus Al, it’s hard enough to get myself to come here in the first place, I don’t want to meet these fucking people. You got to keep investors at a distance.”
“Come on, don’t embarrass me. Have nice manners.”
“Al, they’re getting such a good deal I don’t need to give no nice manners as well on top.”
“Sigmund out of respect for me then, show courtesy at least. You’re going to meet my lovely wonderful companion, who with god willing is going to be the next Mrs. Al Duke.”
“Al at your age don’t be so crazy. Don’t do to yourself what you made me get done to me. Believe it or not in spite of the things I can’t forgive you for, I also like you.”
“Sigmund I’m going to be honest with you. You’re sometimes just such an enigma I can’t believe I know you personally.”
“Well I’m by nature a private introspective type of guy.”
“Champagne, caviar, filet mignon, Clos de Tart. For christ’s sake. What could be more introspective than that. Come meet the folks.”