Showbiz, A Novel

by Preston, Ruby

  Scarlett scanned the audience. She couldn’t see Margolies’ box from her vantage point. She crossed her fingers that he was still in his usual seat and not lurking in the dark somewhere where he could spot her. No sign of Reilly. But from the back of the theater, it was hard to pick out any individual from the sea of men in more or less matching tuxes. Candace should be easier to spot, but for all Scarlett knew, she was slumped over in her seat somewhere.

  By Scarlett’s calculations, she had about ten minutes to go before the first-act finale. Her cue. If she timed it right, their revenge would be truly spectacular.

  While the back wall provided the most concealed spot, she wasn’t able to see the flying space, since the balcony overhang obstructed her view. Their best laid plans, wiring up the Jeremys, had all been for naught. She’d have to do it the old-fashioned way—with her own two eyes.

  During the next applause break, she reluctantly snuck up the grand stairs to see if she could get a better viewpoint from the first balcony. As she cautiously turned the corner into the upper lobby, she caught sight of two of Margolies’ goons chatting in the lobby. Not theater fans, apparently. She snuck back into the stairwell.

  She made her way back down the grand stairway, the plush carpet softening her footsteps. She was running out of time. She inched around to the right side of the audience, doing her best to avoid the notice of the ushers, who would probably wonder where she belonged. She didn’t see a single empty seat in the house. Every single coveted seat in the theater was taken. The night was, for a number of reasons, the theatrical event of the season.

  Cupid’s finale was just beginning. Scarlett’s hands were sweaty as she held the iPad in a vice grip. She slid the “unlock” button, just as they’d practiced the night before, and held the dimmed screen against her body to shield the light. She wished with all her might that she was back in the Escalade as they had originally intended, playing her role at a safer distance.

  She slid her back along the side wall of the theater, just far enough to see out above the balcony if she craned her neck but still mostly in the shadows. She had covered as much of her red dress with her dark shawl as possible.

  Cupid was taking extra time with his song tonight. Milking the crowd. Scarlett knew how maddening it must be for the conductor, but it didn’t surprise her in the least. The audience was eating out of Cupid’s hands. He hadn’t achieved rock-star status for nothing, after all.

  He looked better than usual. His Zeus costume, a flowing white toga, hid the flying harness well. Without his usual visible tattoos, he looked like he could almost pull off a convincing “Greek god” look, thought Scarlett, grudgingly.

  Just then, to spectacular effect, the pyrotechnic cues started. Scarlett had the sequence memorized, and it didn’t appear to have changed in the time since she’d been fired. Cued to a series of Cupid’s high notes and grand gestures, fiery lightning bolts streaked across the stage.

  Next up would be rain, as the chorus of gods behind Cupid built the intensity of the number. There it was—sparkling sheets of water, cascading onto the stage, right on cue. Scarlett could see jaws dropping throughout the audience.

  In a moment, the high-speed flying sequence that had necessitated so many hours of rehearsal and negotiations with the safety board would launch Cupid over the audience in a dramatic crescendo that was guaranteed to send everyone out into the intermission buzzing.

  Scarlett glanced up to make sure she could see what she was doing.

  Margolies spotted her from his box seat on house left.

  Their eyes locked. Scarlett froze where she stood, her fight-or-flight instinct kicking in. And yet the hatred in his eyes gave her the last bit of resolve she needed to do what she had come to do.

  Their death stare was broken as Cupid whizzed through the air in a flash of toga and vocal key changes. He was in great voice that night. The chorus of gods was chanting at full volume from the stage, and the audience was already whooping and cheering.

  Scarlett slid a few inches to the left, so as to be just out of Margolies’ hawk-like view. She gently tilted the iPad screen enough to see the button that Lawrence had programmed. She allowed herself one more peek at Margolies, who was momentarily distracted by the perfectly executed flight sequence that was reaching its climax. On stage the other gods were also rising in the air on nearly invisible wires of their own.

  She closed her eyes and pressed the button on the iPad.

  Nothing happened. Maybe Lawrence wasn’t able to get the system back up in the Escalade, she thought, beginning to panic. A million more thoughts passed through her mind in a split second. Maybe this whole plan has been too far-fetched, after all.

  The fact that one patron could stop an entire show was certainly hard to believe.

  But sure enough, she did.

  The first thing the audience noticed was a change in the sound. The orchestra was illogically quieter and louder all at the same time, as the actor’s wireless body mics went abruptly silent. The unenhanced voices of even the strongest singers were completely drowned out as the orchestra played on, not yet realizing what was happening.

  In the next second, the audience looked up to where Cupid swung from his harness, stranded helplessly above the heads of the patrons in the orchestra section. The wireless remote signal that operated his flying wires had been effectively blocked.

  It was all happening exactly as Scarlett and Lawrence had intended.

  It all happened in a matter of seconds.

  The orchestra petered out as the conductor realized he was no longer getting a microphone feed. Cupid began flailing and cursing as he realized he was stuck. Hushed murmurs passed through the crowd as they wondered if it was all part of the show.

  A series of clicks and flashes broke the silence, coming from the cameras and phones of the audience members directly below Cupid. Those were followed by a few giggles from the audience, which quickly escalated into a roar. Cupid’s swinging had stopped, and everyone watched as his face went through shades of red to purple in extreme mortification.

  Scarlett watched as Cupid desperately tried to adjust his toga. It immediately became all too clear that Cupid, dangling limply from the ceiling, was giving the celebrity audience a prime view of his decision not to wear underwear under his toga for opening night. From her vantage point on the side, Scarlett couldn’t entirely see what those directly below him were seeing. Thank god! she thought to herself. The shocking news passed up and down the aisles like wild fire.

  Scarlett couldn’t quite stifle a small laugh herself, though her glee was quickly tempered by a quick glance up at Margolies. He was leaning over the rail of his box, shouting orders to Cupid, the conductor, the stage manager—but his imperious commands were hopelessly drowned out by the audience members, who were in complete hysterics.

  Scarlett inched her way back to the door as the stage manager come out on to the stage, ripping his now-useless headphones off his ears. No longer able to communicate with the rest of the crew through their wireless headsets, he had to resort to waving and screaming to the various technicians to figure out how to bring Cupid down to the stage and lower the rest of the cast. Of course, Scarlett knew all too well that the revolutionary wireless flying remote wouldn’t work, either. Until the wireless system was back up and running, Cupid and the rest of the cast would be stuck.

  Less than a minute had passed.

  She was nearly to the door, desperate to make a fast escape. She heard the microphones come back on suddenly–exactly according to plan. They had needed less than a minute of wireless interference to make their point. It was a horrifying thought for Broadway theaters everywhere, but a brilliant revenge strategy, thanks to Lawrence.

  The first thing to be heard was Cupid swearing up a storm, followed by the unmistakable “I quit! I’m never setting foot on a Broadway stage again.”
>
  Ironic choice of words, thought Scarlett as she pushed through the doors into the lobby, where the waiting paparazzi were just starting to catch wind of the drama inside.

  Through the now-open door, they could hear the stage manager speaking into a backstage mic, asking everyone to remain calm as they rebooted the system.

  “You might want to see this,” Scarlett told the waiting press reps and photographers. She held the door open as they flooded in, cameras flashing and video cameras going. Scarlett was careful to stay out of their camera angle as she fled across the street.

  Lawrence opened the car door and she slid into the back seat of the Escalade.

  Lawrence greeted her with raised eyebrows. “Well?”

  “Mission accomplished,” she said, sinking down into her seat with a satisfied but exhausted sigh.

  Scene 52

  It was 3:00 a.m., and Scarlett, Reilly, Lawrence, and the Jeremys were still celebrating their triumph. They’d decamped to Lawrence’s penthouse, where his extensive collection of multi-media devices were broadcasting the repercussions of their earlier evening exploits. They couldn’t get enough, endlessly replaying the events.

  “I can’t believe Margolies saw you! Do you think he’ll hunt you down?”

  “He has nothing to hunt her down for!” Lawrence said. “The white space interruption is untraceable. It was just a blip for a few seconds. Oops!” he said with a shrug and wide grin. “All Margolies knows is that she was there.”

  “Too bad we can’t take credit for our videos,” Jersey Jeremy said. “That’s Oscar material, if ever I saw it.”

  The Jeremys had gotten prime video of the whole thing as it played out. Considering the slight change in plan, things had gone extraordinarily well. They’d collected Reilly and the Jeremys into the waiting Escalade, after more chaos than even they could have predicted. Margolies had finally called off the performance after an hour of mayhem—all caught on video—and sent the star-studded crowd home.

  They’d anonymously uploaded key portions of the video to YouTube, and the whole world was getting to experience the monumental disaster that had been Olympus. In fact, it was headlining news cycles worldwide, just as they’d hoped.

  “What do you think will happen to Margolies?” Buff Jeremy asked.

  “Well, there’s no way the show will go on,” Scarlett said. “If OSHA doesn’t shut him down for safety violations, the unions will.”

  “And Cupid’s flown away on his little wings,” Reilly said, smugly.

  “Little being the operative term,” Jersey Jeremy said, referring to the hundreds of pictures of the exposed anatomy of Cupid that had appeared on Facebook and Twitter almost instantly, once the wireless connection came back to the theater and the audience could use their phones.

  An hour earlier, the news had covered Cupid, sans Psyche, boarding his jet to the UK. “No one can do this to me! Are you watching, Margolies?” Cupid spat into the camera. He was still in his toga. “My lawyers will have something to say to you. You are over. Over!”

  “I think Cupid might be over, too. Not exactly the sexy rock-star image that he’s been so carefully cultivating,” Reilly said.

  “Good riddance,” Scarlett said, with a knowing glance in Lawrence’s direction.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. I can think of a few reality TV shows with his name all over them,” Jersey Jeremy said. They all groaned, knowing he was right.

  “So, it looks like a theater will be available in the near future. Swan Song, anyone?” Lawrence asked.

  “You make a good point,” Scarlett said. “But, if it’s up to me, let’s find another theater. The Jackman has too much bad karma right now.”

  “Here, here!” Jersey Jeremy said. “I want Broadway more than anyone, but that has a seriously bad vibe, now that Margolies has slimed all over it.”

  They fell silent as their headlines were picked up by the BBC morning news: “...a fluke signal interruption cut the wireless signal for just a few seconds at Broadway’s Jackman theater last night, causing catastrophic damage to the production and shuttering what sources are saying is the largest Broadway show ever attempted. Cupid, from the international sensation rock band Cupid and Psyche, will be in the studios later today with an exclusive interview, detailing the abuses he suffered under famed Broadway mogul, Margolies. Margolies was not available for comment. Also in the next hour, telecommunication and wireless experts will discuss America’s plans to address the pressing bandwidth and white space issues which threaten the uninterrupted wireless access not just of live theater but professional sports and religious organizations...”

  Their Broadway debut, so to speak, was officially a success.

  Scene 53

  Candace poked her head into her editor’s office. It was Monday morning and she’d spent the weekend in bed. Despite the fever pitch of activity going on at the Banner, her editor had asked her not to come in over the weekend. But he requested her presence in his office first thing Monday morning.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, Candace, take a seat.” He indicated the chair across from his desk. “Close the door behind you.” She didn’t have a good feeling about that. The critic contest had been a disaster, and her editor had clearly taken the reins of her Arts and Culture section, at least for the weekend.

  “Paper sales are through the roof, right?” she said, trying to start the conversation on a positive note. “I thought the editorial on the FCC and wireless issues was brilliant. That should be good for Broadway, and good for us. Puts it in the spotlight, so to speak…” She was babbling, trying to put off the inevitable she feared was coming.

  He sat very still in his chair, a grim set to his mouth. “Candace—”

  “Wow, I read the Olympus review. Or I guess I should say reviews. Was that your idea to open it up to reader reviews, rather than a traditional critic review?” Truthfully, she hated the idea.

  “We’re trying something new for a while. So far, it looks like it’s going to be a success. Our critic gave just one person’s opinion, and readers weren’t always responding. Plus, critics are fallible, it turns out, and subject to political biases.” He gave her a pointed look. “This way, with peer reviews, people can get a more realistic picture.”

  “You mean...” It didn’t compute. “You’re eliminating critics all together?”

  “I like to think of it as expanding, actually. Based on the response for Olympus, it’s going to be a huge hit. It will just be something we’re going to try occasionally, but I think peer reviews are the wave of the future.”

  “But what about my job?” Candace asked, in disbelief that the Banner of all places would be a trailblazer for reader-generated content.

  “Ah, yes. Your job,” he said. He rested his arms on his desk and leaned forward. “I don’t think you’ve been entirely honest with me, Candace.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, though she could feel her face redden. Where was a drink when she needed one?

  “I think you do. We searched your computer and recounted the public votes for the critic contest over the weekend. I must say I was very disappointed with what we found. You rigged the contest, rewrote a review, bribed a critic… and that’s just what we’ve found over the weekend.”

  She stared at him stonily. She didn’t plan to admit a thing.

  “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he prompted.

  “I want a lawyer,” she said.

  “I’m not the police,” he said. “And though it may surprise you, I’m not going to turn you in.”

  “You’re not?” Her mind was spinning.

  “Lucky for you, the Banner can’t afford this kind of scandal right now. However, your desk has been cleared out and your passwords have been changed.” He paused for her reaction, but hearing not
hing, he continued. “Needless to say, you are fired as of this second, and if we hear so much as a peep out of you ever again, we will bring the full weight of the paper and the law down on your head. As far as the public knows, your position is simply being eliminated.” He spoke quietly but firmly. “Am I making myself clear?”

  “I understand,” she said, feeling dizzy.

  He buzzed his secretary on the intercom. “Please send in security.”

  A burly security guard materialized in the doorway seconds later. She’d seen him waiting out there on her way in.

  “Good bye, Candace,” her editor said, as the guard took her arm roughly and firmly led her toward the elevators.

  She didn’t bother fighting. She knew she’d lost. The one small blessing was that at least her humiliation was relatively private. She couldn’t help but smile, even at that moment, at Margolies’ ultimate mortification. His disgrace and downfall was as publicized as his success had been.

  She thought of the bottle of bourbon waiting on her kitchen counter. I am lucky, she thought, pleased with herself. My secrets are safe. This will all blow over.

  Scene 54

  Scarlett leaned back in her new desk chair and surveyed the scene at her new office. A bright, airy, two-office suite just off Times Square with windows overlooking street and sky, it was a vast improvement from her last digs. She couldn’t be more thrilled.

  Setting up the office, she’d wondered more than a few times where Margolies was keeping himself. After the Olympus debacle, she had bravely gone to his office, only to find it crawling with IRS agents, tearing through files and trying to track down Margolies. In better circumstances and with lots of cash, a big show could try to weather a disastrous opening night. But with the theater shut down due to safety violations, the loss of the star actor, and an avalanche of law suits from everyone from the theater owner to the showbiz unions, Margolies had apparently cut his losses and skipped town.