After mulling over the project for several days, he called John Gable, an ex-newspaperman who had taken over The Homicider when Gurney had left. As it turned out, it was Gable, a showbiz buff, who had passed along copies of The Homicider to Norman Welles— clearing up that mystery. Gable said that Essie Hartog was indeed a fine actress, although most of her starring roles had been on the Vienna stage some thirty years back. More recently, she had appeared briefly in a highly praised Noh play in Greenwich Village.
“She’s good, all right,” said Gable, a man not given to passing out compliments lightly, “and there’s one thing handy about having her involved.”
“What’s that?”
“As I recall, she can play either male or female roles.”
Gurney kept savoring the news that Essie Hartog was regarded as a brilliant actress. He had been terribly impressed by Clement Hartog; it helped him to know that the director’s mother had a reputation of her own and was not just riding along on her famous son’s coattails. Gurney, indeed, was quite interested in the project now; a part of him wanted to contact Welles and Hartog immediately, so that they could all get going without delay. What if they took his hesitation to be a lack of interest and decided to pursue another librettist, one with a few shows under his belt? But it had always been difficult for Gurney to go directly after goals he wanted to achieve. He often took the opposite course.
In this case, he decided not to act until the week was up. For all of its appeal, the project loomed as a long and difficult one; as a result, Gurney had the feeling he might not get to do some of the modest, newly divorced things he had begun to enjoy so much. So he did them for the rest of the week. He bought treats like mangoes and Swiss chocolate bars and ate little gourmet meals by himself in the apartment, at all hours, as many as five small ones a day. On Saturday, he had a maid come in; late in the day, he returned to the flat, took off his clothes, lay down on the bed, and took pleasure in the neatness and simplicity of the place. He enjoyed everything that week: making a couple of pieces of toast, the radio, the fresh December air, and mostly just lying around, not particularly worried about his next step.
At night, he sat around at Bombola’s, looked at the pretty girls, and congratulated himself for not feeling any strong pressure to have them. On Sunday, he felt ill and had a sudden fear that he might become so weak that he wouldn’t be able to call anyone for help and would be found dead in the apartment. His temperature rose and his condition worsened as the day went along; the grim scenario seemed a real possibility. Sunday night was his deadline on whether to commit to the show. As it got on toward midnight, he felt it was impossible to get out of bed and reach the telephone. Fifteen minutes before the appointed hour, struggling, as if he were moving through heavy syrup, he made it to his feet and somehow dialed Clement Hartog’s number.
“I’m sick as a dog,” he whispered, “but count me in.”
“Oh, I’m so thrilled!” said Hartog, with the candor that had endeared him to Gurney. “Wait till mother hears the news.”
Once Gurney had recovered, the three collaboraters decided to have dinner together to celebrate the beginning of their new venture. Gurney thought his two new friends might enjoy a visit to Lumpy’s, a colorful bar and restaurant on the same street as his old precinct where homicide dicks and second-rate criminals alike tended to congregate. Hartog had promised to bring Essie along, but when he arrived, he was alone.
“Quite frankly,” he said, “she’s a little afraid to meet you. I think she’d prefer to demonstrate beforehand what she can do with your dialogue. I don’t delude myself. She’s probably a little sensitive about her son’s being the director—and feels she might not have gotten the part on her own.”
“That’s preposterous,” said Gurney. “I’ve heard she’s marvelous.”
“She is,” said Hartog, close to tears. “And she’ll go to hell and back for us in this show.”
Welles, dapper and freshly barbered, showed up with the lovely woman he had brought to Bombola’s.
“Since the last time you saw me,” he said, his arms around her, “I’ve fallen madly in love with Tippy here, and we’re to be married as soon as the show opens. But I’ve explained to her that I really can’t concentrate on our romance while I’m working. And she understands.”
Tippy smiled weakly, but it seemed to Gurney that she might not have been quite so understanding. Gurney, who knew the menu by heart, recommended Soup N’Beef, a heavily grueled stomach-liner of a dish much favored by the hardworking detectives.
“Is it any good?” asked Welles. “I’ve got to be careful with my eating when I’m working on a show.”
“It’s first-rate,” said Gurney.
As he broke off a piece of the restaurant’s popular corn bread, some shots rang out, causing his new friends to duck down instinctively in their seats.
“There’s no cause for alarm,” he assured the shaken group. “The rounds you just heard are from an adjacent firing range where the dicks take their practice once a week. Whenever I eat at Lumpy’s I have a fantasy in which bullets slip through the walls and cut me down at the table.”
“Do you think it’s possible it might happen now?” asked Welles, who seemed terribly concerned with his physical condition. “Maybe we ought to move to another restaurant.”
“No, no, it’s safe,” said Gurney. “Nobody’s been shot here in weeks.”
Tippy was interested in knowing about several men at the bar.
“Are they criminals or police?” she asked. She seemed excited by either possibility.
Gurney said that they were homicide dicks in plainclothes. The short stocky one in the group was Detective Gatti, who was known to be quick on the trigger and had more “kills” than anyone else in the Bureau. Though he had made a persuasive case for each incident, the Department kept a close eye on him. Several of his superiors considered him a walking grenade.
“It’s good to know people like that,” said Welles.
“When I get angry,” said Hartog, who seemed to feel that his masculinity had been questioned, “I really lose my head.”
A huge man in a Navy pea jacket walked up to the bar, ordered a beer, and then waved toward the table.
“Hey, Gurns,” he shouted, “how they hangin’?”
After acknowledging him with a nod, Gurney explained to his friends that the man was a two-bit hood named Kicker who liked to hang around cops.
“There’s quite a community of interest between the two groups. The hoods are fascinated by police, the way kids are by star athletes. The really important mobsters don’t come in here, just the fringe types.”
He said that Kicker was an expert foot-fighter. His style was to bump into someone, back away with his hands up in apology, saying, “Excuse me, fella, I didn’t mean any harm,” and then lash out with one of his feet and smash the man’s jaw.
Kicker approached the table and said: “I heard you left Homicide, Gurns. What’s the matter, getting too good for us?”
“Beat it, Kicker,” Gurney said, looking the man in the eye. “Try any kicks and you’re dead meat.”
“Okay, okay,” said Kicker, backing away with his hands up apologetically. “Pardon me for breathing.”
“You handled that beautifully,” said Tippy.
“It didn’t take much … but thanks.”
“I thought he was going to kick,” said Welles, his brows knitting in fear. “I was sure of it.”
“That’s funny,” said Hartog. “I knew he wasn’t.”
“Listen, Paul,” said Welles, with a boyish and somewhat appealing grin, “if you had an argument with your collaborators, you wouldn’t punch us out, would you?”
“Of course not,” said Gurney. “I’m not really a fighter. But being in Homicide, you pick up a few tricks here and there.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Welles. “Because sometimes collaborators don’t get along. In the heat of a show, I mean. And you’re probably strong enough
to beat the shit out of me.”
The next morning, Clement Hartog called Gurney and said that the first order of business was getting a producer to back the show. He spoke in the style of a man who had once been highly emotional and had taught himself to reason and to keep his passions in check.
“I don’t delude myself,” he said. Violencia is a tough nut. It doesn’t have a star in the conventional sense. The composer comes out of tent shows and has been off the scene for many years, and the subject in many ways is abrasive and not your usual musical comedy fare.”
“How about me?” said Gurney. “An unknown librettist.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s hurting us, Paul. All I know is that I believe in the basic material.”
He said that he had reviewed the list of producers who might be available, canceled out most of them, and decided the best candidate was Philip Undertag, a man Gurney had never heard of before.
“What shows has he done?” Gurney asked, realizing it was no doubt presumptuous of him, of all people, to be asking this question.
Hartog said that Undertag had produced a dozen or more shows thus far and had never brought in a single hit. On the other hand, he was a square shooter, had a great deal of money, and was known never to quit on a project. “I don’t want someone walking out on us before we’ve gotten off the ground,” he explained.
Additionally, Undertag had varied interests, such as the ownership of a theatrical costuming company—and would be useful in getting out-of-town and Broadway bookings for Violencia.
“One more thing,” said Hartog. “He knows Essie from her Vienna days. He adores her and understands that even though she’s never done a big show, she is ready to stand this town on its ear.”
“Well then, it’s all right with me,” said Gurney.
He was delighted that Hartog always seemed to consult him on an equal basis—as though Gurney himself had a wealth of background in show business.
The three collaborators met the producer the following day in the Undertag Building; in his travels about the city’s downtown area, Gurney, for some reason, had never noticed the imposing structure.
Undertag was a stocky fellow who spoke somewhat haltingly; at each gap in the conversation, he would smile, take two corners of his wide slacks in his hands, and do a curtsy. It surprised Gurney to see that Clement Hartog, in speaking to the producer, was terribly deferential in his manner. He took a chair that was quite low to the ground, which somehow minimized the celebrated director’s importance and made Undertag, standing behind his walnut desk, appear to be a figure of great eminence.
“I believe we’ve got a whale of a show, Mr. Undertag,” said Hartog. “If you back us, have a little patience and faith in us— although I can’t guarantee it—I think we can hand you a hit.”
It upset Gurney to see the great director reduce himself in this manner. Nor could he for the life of him see why he felt the need to do so.
Undertag, to his credit, did not use Hartog’s toadying manner to any particular advantage.
“I believe in you fellows,” he said, “but even though I have plenty of money, I really don’t like to put it at risk. I’ll produce your show, but we’ll have to get some outside dough. And my question is, where’s it coming from?”
“That’s the most ridiculous and insulting thing I’ve ever heard,” said Norman Welles, leaping in with knitted eyebrows and terrible fury. “I myself can guarantee one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Have your secretary get society’s Betty Fiscus on the phone immediately. She is a friend of mine and is good for another fifty thou right there.”
“It’s all right with me,” said Undertag, holding his hands aloft, giggling and doing his trademark curtsy.
Gurney was proud of Welles for standing up to the producer in a direct no-nonsense manner. He envied the composer, too, for being able to express himself openly and with such conviction.
Undertag’s secretary made the call and came back with the information that Betty Fiscus was touring the Greek islands and could not be reached.
“That’s a pity,” said Welles. “The breaks are going against us. Because I’m sure that if I had gotten to her, Betty would have immediately fired off a check for the fifty. I played her some of my song ideas for the show and she got so excited she wet herself.”
Though obviously he had an opening, Undertag declined to press his momentary advantage over Welles. As a result, Gurney began to think of the producer as a fine gentleman.
“All right, boys,” said Undertag, “let’s not concern ourselves with money at the moment. I’m producing the show. Let me worry about it. What’s much more important is that we don’t have a word down on paper. How do we know we can put on a show for the fall season? You fellows can use my offices, my facilities, and let’s see if we can get the sucker written before we go any further.”
“That sounds mighty fair to me, Mr. Undertag,” said Clement Hartog, an odd folksy note creeping into his cultivated European delivery. “That all right with you boys?”
Welles nodded his assent. Gurney, of course, went along, and there were handshakes all around. Undertag said he had to leave, but that the three collaborators could remain in the office and begin right away if they liked. He did a sign-off curtsy at the door.
As soon as he was gone, Welles sat down at his desk and began putting through expensive long-distance calls to remote parts of the globe such as Bombay and Kuala Lumpur. Gurney thought it insensitive of Welles to take advantage of Undertag’s offer in such an obvious manner; but on the other hand he admired the composer’s flair and theatricality. He seemed to be calling brokers around the world who had made fortunes of money for him and berating them for not making more. Welles had a way of insulting people directly and getting away with it. Gurney shuddered to think what might have happened if the composer had tried that style on some of his old mates in Homicide.
While Welles was on the phone to Gstaad, the ex-dick asked Clement Hartog why he had been so deferential in dealing with Philip Undertag.
“Oh, was I?” said Hartog, wheeling about, less in surprise than as though he were an actor conveying surprise.
‘Yes,” said Gurney. “And it puzzled me, because you’re so much more important than he is.”
“You really think I was acting too respectful to him?” said Hartog, this time in genuine surprise. “Well, maybe I was. I’ll watch it next time.”
“How much would you fellows say I’m worth?” asked Welles when he had finished making his calls. “Go ahead, take a guess.”
Hartog said half a million. Gurney had been living on the equivalent of detective’s pay and was dazzled by the number. He said he had no idea.
“Four million two,” said Welles, boyishly enthusiastic. “But if I don’t watch it,” he said, his mood switching to anger, “these bastards will let it slip down the drain. I just bring this up to indicate that I don’t really have to do this show and can easily retire. But I love it, and it will be good to get my name up there in lights again.”
When Hartog suggested that the trio get right down to work, Welles smiled exultantly, stretched, and said: “Look, fellows, this has been a great day for us. We’ve got a producer, we’ve got a hit on our hands. I’m just too excited to work. I say we adjourn for today and get a fresh start in the morning. I’ve got a little doll—well, hell, you met Tippy—and I’m dying to take her to dinner. I’m crazy about you two guys and I just hope that each of you gets to experience what I’m going through—really being in love.”
Hartog laughed softly to himself and seemed to stroke an imaginary beard.
“All right, let’s do that,” he said wearily. “We’ll get a fresh start in the morning.”
Welles then looked around and appeared to notice Under-tag’s handsome suite of offices for the first time.
“What a terrific place to get laid.”
He let the remark hang in the air a bit, then added, with an endearing chuckle: “What’s wrong
with me! I’ve got a fourteen-room town house for that. And besides, I’m in love with one of the greatest little gals in history. And she’s smart as a whip, too.”
Scene 2
They assembled the next day at Undertag’s office. When they’d had their coffee and Danish pastries, Clement Hartog pushed the table back and said: “How to begin! It’s vitally important in this project to make the right start. Otherwise, it could be costly.”
“I don’t care what anyone says,” said Welles, his knees drawn up to his chest. “I think this will make one helluva musical.”
“You don’t know it,” the composer said to Gurney, “but I’ve had my eye on this property for five years. I didn’t contact you earlier because, who knows, you might have demanded a fortune for the basic material and really stuck it to me. And I wanted to get this great man, Clement Hartog, interested too. So this is a tremendously important day for me. Not that I have to be here. I could be out writing specialty songs for nightclub singers at five grand a crack. Maybe not in the States, but they love me in St. Tropez.”
Lips pursed, looking somewhat gray and ashen, Clement Hartog said: “Quite frankly, gentlemen, I’m not sure I have a precise way to get rolling.”
The three sat in silence for a few minutes. Gurney tried to appear in deep thought, but was not actually thinking.
“Look,” said Welles, getting to his feet, “I think we’re in trouble. Maybe you can’t do a show on this subject. Maybe Undertag was right to be cautious. Fellows, I’m crazy about you two guys, but I’m pulling out. It’s nothing personal, I hope we can remain friends and maybe even do a show together someday, but I know a turkey when I see one. I’ll probably get singled out personally and get blasted by the critics, and I just don’t know if I can take that. I’m not as young as I used to be and I don’t have that many chances left.”
Clement Hartog chuckled softly and patted Welles’ knee.
“Norman, be a little patient. We’re just getting started. I think we can lick it.”
Violencia! Page 2
