“My goodness Schultz whatever did you do that for to a perfectly good newspaper.”
“Because never never is that show going to close. Over my dead body.”
“I do believe his Royal Grace can find room for you in one of his cemeteries Schultz. Even in those most strange shoes. A grace and favour grave so to speak. And as a respected director of this firm, Sperm Productions will gladly accord you a most dignified funeral and foot the bill.”
Schultz pacing the floor shaking a clenched fist up and down. Rebecca leaving the room with a folder full of clippings instructed to check on the stars to see if there were any suicides. Schultz suddenly tripping on the carpet. An instant smile on Binky’s face. Schultz turning and leaning forward over the chairman’s desk.
“I don’t give a shit what the reviewers say. I’m going to beat the fuckers. That show has got balls.”
“Dear me Schultz you are in a tizzy.”
“That’s right.”
“Well in spite of such testicular hope Schultz, the box office phones have been practically dead all morning. There is simply no advance booking. The reviews are unanimous that the show is atrocious. That little newspaper you’ve just put your fist through is read by about five million people.”
“I don’t care how many read it. They can wipe their asses with it, piss in it, but that show stays on.”
“And Schultz we understand from Mr. Gayboy, to whom I must confess I sold half my share of the show, that you could have sold the whole production to one of Broadway’s biggest producers last night where it would be ensured to find a suitably gauche audience.”
“That’s right.”
“And you didn’t.”
“That’s right.”
“You didn’t even entertain the thought.”
“No I didn’t Binky.”
“Ah because you thought it would be so nice to keep your sterling reputation intact as a producer of resounding flops in which you have consistently guaranteed that the entire investment is always lost.”
“Fuck you Binky. You thought even before it opened it was going to be a flop. Selling half your share. Well I’m not selling anything and I’m not closing this show.”
Rebecca quietly stepping in. Solemn faced whispering to Schultz that Magillacurdy was not at Claridge’s all last night. And handing over the afternoon editions of the evening newspapers. Two more panning reviews. A headline next to one of them.
SOCK HER DON’T KISS HER
SHE’S YOUR WIFE
Sigmund Franz Schultz the impresario, and producer of “Kiss It, Don’t Hold It, It’s Too Hot,” was fined ten pounds this morning at Bow Street Magistrates Court for causing actual bodily harm to his wife whom he punched following last night’s performance at the Regent Theatre.
“O dear Schultz, here we go again. Same old headline. Sperm Productions, that innocent company dragged yet again into another Schultz intempestivity. With Gayboy already in a state. Raging that the show is giving the theatre such a bad name that it could ruin business for years to come. And dear me this little news item will promptly blow his hemorrhoids clean out of his backside. Forgive me Rebecca.”
“Bullshit. That’s a fucking headline everybody’s going to read. Mentioning the show, the theatre. I know in my bones this fucking thing is going to work. Shit, months, months of my life are not going to be buried suddenly by a fucking bunch of nincompoops who don’t know their ass from their elbows. You heard the laughing and cheering.”
“Yes I did Schultz. Under the booing and jeering. But most distinctly of all I recognised your clapping. Or were you applauding your rather large incarcerated mother in law.”
“Binky that audience for real were being genuinely entertained. Three quarters of them loved it.”
“Ah Schultz permit me, to leaven your heartfelt words with those of sobriety. I have not yet had his Royal Grace check with his laser beam financial eye all the figures but having myself peeked under items marked hotels, lodgings, transport and especially items miscellaneous, I would say you have the overcall already spent. And my dear young man does it not occur to you that you may live to, fight another day. That this is just another little flop that people will quite quickly forget in three or four years. But to persist in the present agony is only merely prolonging the future ignominy.”
Schultz taking up the torn newspaper from the floor. Hold up the perforated review. Piecing it together.
“Rebecca, you read what that fucking critic said. Well let me quote to both of you. Genius. Shimmering grace. Spectacularly beautiful. Captivated the audience. Stage history being made. Those fucking words are going to be emblazoned all over this town. And give me a cigar Binky.”
“Schultz have you no ethics. You can’t possibly print what you’ve just blatantly quoted entirely out of context.”
“Can’t I, just watch me. These fucking critics have such egos trying to bust out of their half assed guts that when that son of a sour bitch sees his name plastered all over he won’t even murmur a sigh of protest. Rebecca.”
“Yes Mr. Schultz.”
“Take this down. A tour de force. Vulgar, brash, garish, grossly insulting, and stage history is being made. Genius is a word one uses sparingly but it would have to be applied in the case of Mr. Magillacurdy and his stunning co star whose shimmering, exquisite balletic beauty captivated the audience. See it, don’t miss it, it’s too wonderful. Got that Rebecca.”
“Yes Mr. Schultz.”
“O.K. Rebecca put it into respectable grammatical order and slam all that into the classified ads. Use caps on the see it, don’t miss it, it’s too wonderful. And I want big spreads in the Sunday papers using the same thing under the picture of the two stars. And Rebecca on that phone get me this Knightsbridge number.”
“Ah my dear Schultz sometimes I do really detect a flavour of the naval man in you, albeit one, who has cast his moral principles overboard.”
“That’s right. Just excuse me a second. Hello. Hey. Hi. It’s me. Sigmund Schultz. Yeah Sigmund Franz Schultz. Come to the ballet tonight. You got to. Why not. That’s no reason. This is life and death O.K. I’ll pick you up at seven. See you.”
“Schultz I couldn’t help overhearing. The ballet.”
“That’s right. Taking a box at Covent Garden. Just for one evening to catch my breath. To put some grace and beauty back into my life.”
“Schultz. I’m impressed with you. Yes. Very much so. You are truly remarkable. You’re not with your tail anywhere near between your legs. I think perhaps I may even decide to lose my shirt with yours.”
“You mean half your shirt.”
“Ah yes, half. But old Gayboy will only be too relieved to sell back his share. Dear me in a business which is nothing but risk, I don’t know why I’m so cautious sometimes. You know many foolish and misguided things happen in the name of friendship. And when one has assumed the responsible position of Chairman as I have, there are times when one must take decisions on an empirical rather than emotional basis. It was from a very skinflint ancestor that I’ve inherited what may be thought by some to be an unflattering tendency to, how does one put it, to hedge one’s bets.”
“You’re a shrewd hard cunning son of a bitch Binky.”
“Thank you Shultz, thank you. But at least you’ve found in me, at this moment, a trusted ally.”
“Christ that’s the last thing I need now is people I can trust. Because from now on, nobody, including you is to be trusted.”
“Ah that’s a bit of a blow to one’s team spirit Schultz. Is not even his Royal Grace to be trusted.”
“Well I might trust him. I must confess he owns so fucking much of this world that all he has to do is look out for crooks.”
Schultz brushing down his clothes. Straightening his borrowed tie. The phone ringing. Binky picking it up. Putting his hand over the speaker.