Violencia!

by Bruce Jay Friedman

  “I was tempted to lease it out, believe me,” he said through thin lips, “but I told them, may God forgive me, I was going with Violencia.”

  The producer advised Gurney and Hartog to stay away from the theatre for a while, since the children’s games were still in operation; the two creators might be upset by the sight of youngsters at play in the future home of their show.

  “But there’s no point in losing the income,” said Undertag. “We can keep the game concessions going until they’re ready to put in the seats.”

  When Norman Welles heard about “The Pokerino,” he ignored Undertag’s advisory. With Tito Passionato in tow, he raced over to the arcade as fast as he was able to. Gurney, out of curiosity, tagged along and listened as the composer sang snatches of his songs from different parts of the huge, noisy arcade, with Passionato humming in the background.

  Welles said he was something of a sound expert himself.

  “And I’m not having one note of my songs lost in the wings, either. Not after I’ve broken my balls to write them.”

  After he had sung from several dozen locations in the enormous arcade, he shook his head in that appealingly boyish manner of his and declared that as far as he was concerned there wasn’t a single dead spot in the entire Pokerino.

  Since the theatre would not be ready for several months, auditions for Violencia got under way in Undertag’s office. This was an exciting time for Gurney, who got to see the dicks and hookers and hoods he had created jump off the page in the form of live actors. There was no shortage of applicants, either. It seemed that every performer in the country wanted to work for Clement Hartog. A change came over the director at this point, too, which Gurney felt was a welcome one. Whereas Hartog’s manner had been gentle and reticent in the work on the libretto, it now became deep-throated, majestic, and stentorian. He conducted the auditions with power and command, though he was capable of a soft word here and there when an auditioning actor appeared to be frightened and uncertain.

  The key Chief of Homicide role, of course, was no problem, since it was by prearrangement to be played by the director’s mother. Other principal parts included the young, socially enlightened detective hero, his one-armed girlfriend (a loving homage, he realized after he’d created the character, to his new friend, Angela), and the tricky role of the black dick with a compulsion to kill pants-pressers. The pursuit of this fellow, his capture, and his subsequent fate in so many ways lay at the heart of Violencia.

  Hartog felt that these would be difficult roles to cast and that the focus, at first, should be on the casting of relatively minor characters, which might go quickly.

  “With a few of those under our belts, we’ll feel better.”

  Hartog insisted that a stage manager be retained, to set up and run the auditions. Although Undertag fought him on this, the producer finally relented and hired an elderly pro named “Mr. Mortimer” who had managed shows dating all the way back to Ziegfeld.

  “This is a big victory for us, Paul,” said Hartog. “I want to see the sonofabitch spend. The deeper in he gets, the harder it will be for him to duck out on us.”

  Each auditioning actor was asked to do a dramatic scene for Hartog, a little dance for the Balinese choreographer, Han Nihsu, and finally, a song for Norman Welles, preferably one that the composer had written. At first the collaborators saw only young boys, filing in by the dozens from all parts of the globe. This was in deference to Mr. Mortimer, who would bring each one forth and say: “I think this young man would be wonderful for the panty-sniffing microAnalysis dick or perhaps for the polygraph expert. And I want you to know that I for one don’t care whether he gets the part or not. I just think he’d be excellent, that’s all.”

  Gurney was a little annoyed by this procedure, since it was obvious to him that none of Mr. Mortimer’s young friends made any sense in the roles for which they were auditioning. But Hartog said it was just a ritual that had to be endured if you wanted the experienced Mr. Mortimer on the team.

  “He knows all these boys from various beaches around the world, and he feels an obligation to them. Once he sees he can’t slip them past us he’ll start bringing in some real actors.”

  After Mr. Mortimer’s acquaintances had been gotten out of the way, the professionals did have their turn. This was a thrilling experience for Gurney, seeing an actor, for example, who could be even more violent and homicidal than the many-gunned dick whose role he was trying to land.

  Along with the acting, singing, and dancing requirements, Hartog, for some reason lodged deeply in his long experience, wanted each performer to be a crack shot and an expert in hand-to-hand combat. After the vocal auditions, the actors were given marksmanship tests in the basement of the Undertag Building and asked to throw Mr. Mortimer to the ground.

  Following weeks of painstaking, often wearying auditions, most of the minor roles were cast; to everyone’s considerable surprise and relief, a young black actor appeared who gave every indication that he would be superb in the complex role of the dick who is unmasked as a killer of pants-pressers. A mild-mannered, good-looking youth offstage, the actor, Hobie Hancock, gave an audition that was both beautiful and terrifying to watch. Mr. Mortimer had asked actors competing for the role merely to indicate that they were chained to a radiator. Hancock, however, insisted on actually finding one in Undertag’s office, tearing it loose, and chaining himself so tightly to it that blood ran from his shoulders. For his song, he did “White Christmas,” punching out each of the “whites” with bitter irony. His dancing was effortless, his marksmanship impeccable, and although he was slim of build, he was able to throw the shambling Mr. Mortimer farther than any of the previous applicants had.

  “I won’t mince any words with you,” said Hartog, jumping up from his seat in excitement. “The part is yours if you want it.”

  “Hold on just a moment,” said the quiet-spoken young man. “Let me audition you.”

  “Go right ahead,” said Hartog, somewhat brusquely.

  “What is my motivation for wasting all those dry-cleaning personnel?”

  “I’m not sure,” Gurney put in defensively. “We’re working on it.”

  “And Paul will get it, too,” Norman Welles put in. “He’s brilliant.”

  “Ever get your favorite suit ruined by a pants-presser?” Hartog volunteered. “With a major party coming up?”

  “Then this is a comedy, right?” said Hancock thoughtfully.

  “With serious undertones,” Gurney shot back.

  “My reference was to the over tones,” Hancock replied.

  The actor reflected for a moment.

  “I’ll do your show,” he said finally. “It’s time I had something facetious in my life.”

  Hartog and Gurney saw hundreds of actors for the role of the young detective hero, but no one who was absolutely on target. Hartog suggested that perhaps it would be a good idea for the two of them to go out to the West Coast, where many of the best young performers were working in television. Gurney had never seen that part of the country. The prospect of flying to Los Angeles and perhaps mingling with people in the film colony was an exciting one.

  “I’ll pay your way out there, fellas,” said Undertag, who had initially resisted the idea, “but only if you pay your way back.”

  In the days remaining before the scheduled trip, Gurney spent some of his time sitting in on Han Nihsu’s chorus auditions. The celebrated Balinese choreographer, famed in theatre circles for her delicate pagoda-like ballet formations, put a great emphasis on buttocks, particularly when it came to the young female dancers. After her assistants, a quartet of young Balinese boys, had put each dancer through various movements, Han Nihsu would say impatiently: “All right, all right, turn her around and let me get a look at her ass.”

  “I can’t stand a droopy tush on the stage,” she later explained to Gurney. “There’s no excuse for it. I’d rather not work than put up with a jelly-butt—or maybe do films, where you can fake it.”


  Each time she passed Gurney—as if to emphasize this concern of hers—she would back into the ex-dick and let him sample her aging but still firmed-up Asian behind, the kind she thought everyone should have.

  Welles, a fitness nut, suddenly became concerned about his own ass, which he felt was losing its tone.

  “Do you have any excercises for it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Han Nihsu. “We can do them together, but we’ll have to cut our lunch periods short.”

  “I’d like to get started immediately,” said Welles, reaching round to check himself for slackness.

  Clement Hartog was a big booster of Han Nihsu’s and had fought to get her hired for Violencia.

  “No question, there will be a definite Asian flavor to the dances, but I think it’s a good fit for our show. And the key thing is, Han is loyal and will go to the moon and back for us.”

  Gurney noted that Hartog preferred to work with people who would be willing to go to the moon—or through a brick wall—for him. The ex-homicider wondered if he himself would go that far, if asked to do so.

  When the female dancers were finally chosen, Gurney was pleased to see that of the six taken, there were at least two cute ones and one marginal. Norman Welles was in on the final selection. He asked Gurney if he’d picked one for the out-of-town tryouts.

  “They go crazy on the road from all the boredom, and love nothing more than to be entertained and screwed in your suite, since their own rooms are so pitifully small. Let me know which one you want, Paul, I’ll tell you mine, and that way we’ll make sure there’s no conflict.”

  Gurney felt that Welles’ plan was a bit callous, but he thanked him all the same. With a bitter chuckle, Hartog said that unfortunately he would be out of action, since Essie was in the show.

  “She’ll be watching me like a hawk.”

  The director took a special interest in the male dancers and was present at each audition to make sure that no conspicuously effeminate types were chosen.

  “Normally, I woldn’t be concerned. But we can ill afford that stuff in this particular show.”

  It was his idea that each performer in Violencia should look as though he or she belonged in or around a homicide bureau. Gurney could not really appraise the dance movements, but he was satisfied that each of the men selected was rugged and masculine-looking and might easily have passed for either a dick or a hood. Later, after they had all been signed up, he passed the office that had been used as a temporary dressing room and was surprised to see the six male dancers lounging around in masses of costume jewelry, several of them trying on Victorian dresses from an old Undertag production that had bitten the dust after two performances. In among the dancers was Hobie Hancock, who was twirling about in a dirndl. Gurney was somewhat rattled by all of this and reported what he had seen to Clement Hartog.

  “Oh well,” said the director with a sigh. “As long as they don’t carry on during the performance.”

  At Hartog’s insistence, a press agent was hired for Violencia, although Undertag fought the director on this, insisting there was no point in spending the money when the show might go directly down the tubes. As a compromise, Undertag hired a woman named Nettie Hersel who was new to the business and in no position to command substantial fees. Just before Gurney left for the West Coast, the PR woman called and suggested they meet for lunch, with the idea of developing a few leads to promote the show.

  “You could do with a little exposure,” she told him over the phone. “You’re a complete unknown.”

  They met at a theatrical restaurant where lesser lights in the business were summarily shipped off to the second floor. The head-waiter, predictably, showed Gurney the stairs to the upper tier.

  “See what I told you?” said Nettie Hersel, trailing along behind him. “We have to sit in Siberia.”

  Gurney was more than a little irritated by her manner. His feelings certainly didn’t change when she sat down and said that quite frankly she didn’t think the show had a single redeeming feature—the characters were hateful, the music dreary, and the basic theme distasteful and outmoded.

  “Don’t worry, though. If I can come up with some angles, I’ll work my butt off anyway. Personal feelings never get in the way of my job. I could have promoted Goebbels and never batted an eyelash. But I thought it was important to lay my feelings out on the line, so you won’t think I’m a hypocrite. The show stinks to the high heavens.”

  Gurney hit the ceiling at this and went right after her.

  “What about you?” he said. “What makes you so great? I hear you’ve never even done a goddamned show before. Who cares about your opinion?”

  Nettie Hersel took a deep drag on her cigarette and, as if she were out on a first date, said, “Oh, I was a suburban housewife, and I was bored, bored, bored, what can I tell you. I tried cheating on my husband a few times, but that was only a temporary giggle. So now I’m doing this. Let’s stop fooling around. Any scandal in your life, any dirt that we can slyly exploit?”

  Although Gurney thought she was the worst woman he had ever met, he was strangely unable to leave the table. And it wasn’t because she was fascinating, either.

  “There’s no scandal,” he said.

  “Anything on Hartog?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Now look,” she said, with a kind of toughness that would have been more appropriate at Gurney’s old bureau, “if you’re not going to cooperate …”

  “Who said I won’t? But isn’t there a decent way to publicize this show? How about the fact that I’m an ex-dick doing a libretto for a Broadway musical?”

  “Garbahge,” said Nettie Hersel, giving the word a nauseating French twist. “And boy, do I ever pick ’em,” she added over her shoulder, as though looking for support.

  She puffed her cigarette down to the end and seemingly regained her composure.

  “All right … there may be one stunt we can pull. It’s worked for a few of my other clients, who, incidentally, are given tables downstairs when they come in here, and not shown directly to the toilet.”

  “It just might interest you to know,” said Gurney, wishing he could be more acerbic, “that there are some people who come to this restaurant for the food.”

  “Good for them.”

  She then said that in her experience a surefire way of getting wide publicity was for the client in question to appear on one of the widely viewed late-night television talk shows with his or her mother, the two exchanging amusing anecdotes about one another and more or less appearing as a team.

  “If by some miracle I can get you or your mom on one of them, I think Vio-luhnz-ic or whatever the hell you call it might have a prayer of getting some attention.”

  “My mother’s dead.”

  “Oh, fuck,” said Nettie Hersel.

  “Fuck you,” said Gurney.

  “I’m glad I’m having lunch with such a gentleman.”

  Her voice was shaky as she said this, and she pulled a tissue out of her purse to dab at her eyes.

  “If you’re going to be hard-nosed,” said Gurney, “you’d better develop a tougher hide.”

  But even as he spoke, he found himself feeling sorry for the woman. It seemed to be built into his character: feeling sympathy for people who’d insulted him and probably didn’t deserve it. No doubt this was the driving spirit behind certain terrific religions, which he planned to investigate, as soon as he had a little spare time.

  The night before Gurney left for California, as if to sweeten the Nettie Hersel experience, Philip Undertag called him at home and told him to drop everything and come right over to see the Pokerino.

  “It’s just about completely built now. The Violencia sign is up on the marquee, which has got to be a thrill for you.

  “But you’d better take a look at it now,” he added, “since this may be as far as the show will ever get.”

  Oddly enough, on this occasion, the last remark did not bother Gurney
. He had gotten accustomed to Undertag’s style, a combination of waspishness and perversity that was only half-serious. Then, too, the constant negative approach, intended or not, was probably a natural outgrowth of all those endless gray years of producing turkey after turkey. Additionally, when Undertag spoke, it was somewhat in the style of the typical boss: Never compliment the help or they might ask for more money. It was reminiscent of Gurney’s old superior at the Bureau, Detective Turner, whose only reaction to the successful wrapping up of a brutal and maddeningly complex homicide was an infuriating little shrug, as if to imply that any idiot could have solved the case.

  Much more important to Gurney at the moment was the fact that Undertag had been thoughtful enough to call him. Who could tell—perhaps the wealthy producer had a secret fondness for Violencia, but kept his enthusiasm hidden for fear of jinxing the show and killing off what might turn out to be his first hit since entering the business.

  Gurney raced over in a cab. When he saw the Pokerino, all lit up, with the Violencia sign proudly displayed on its marquee, he asked the driver to slow down, and then to drive back and forth several times.

  “It’s a little show I’m doing,” he said to the driver.

  “Really? You don’t look like an actor.”

  “No, no, I’m the author.”

  “Is that right?” said the driver. “Good luck to you. I once had Sammy Davis in the car.”

  Inside the Pokerino, Clement Hartog and Undertag stood in the midst of a group of carpenters who were working overtime to get the interior ready.

  “How’s she look?” asked the producer, who was beaming.

  “How’s she look?” Gurney repeated. “She looks great.”

  Indeed, he loved every seat in the theatre; he loved the carpeting, the overhead chandeliers, and he loved the half-completed stage. As far as he was concerned, he could have moved right in and lived there for the rest of his life. Up on the stage, Philip Undertag, with his hands in his pockets, stood facing an invisible audience, as if he were Gielgud about to deliver a soliloquy. He did his trademark curtsy and then, unaware that he was being watched, performed an economical little dance step, ending with a buck-and-wing and a bow. Gurney saw clearly then why the homely little man kept investing hundreds of thousands in show after show, even though he’d never gotten a penny in return.