by Gerald Elias
THREE
Lilburn received a sudden jolt from behind, causing him to spill his drink on the tuxedo jacket he had just picked up from the dry cleaner’s that afternoon. “Philistines!” he cursed, but when he turned, his dour expression immediately brightened. A stocky man about his own age with brushed-back thinning hair and a short graying beard, wearing a brown wool herringbone suit (in July!), smoked salmon hors d’oeuvre in one hand, proffered napkin in the other, stood before him. It was Solomon Goldbloom, a well-known and highly respected violinist from the Boston Symphony.
“Mr. Goldbloom!”
“Sorry, Lilburn, didn’t mean to shove you.”
“No, no! You’ve suddenly made me feel like Diogenes rather than David!”
“That bad, huh?” said Goldbloom, chewing on his canapé.
“I’m afraid so,” said Lilburn.
Trevor Grimsley approached, pink mixed drink, with cherry, in hand.
“Speak of the devil,” said Goldbloom. Lilburn attempted to slip away, but Goldbloom grabbed his sleeve and held on, preventing his escape.
“Cute speech, Trevor,” said Goldbloom.
“Ah! Sol!” said Trevor. “Sol Goldbloom! So good to see you. I didn’t expect you’d make it.”
“Well, I had a night off from the symphony tour, so I thought I’d stop and hear the kid. She plays pretty well, huh?”
“Pretty well? I’d say that’s the understatement of the year!”
“Look, boychik,” said Goldbloom, smiling as he swallowed his canapé. He let go of Lilburn’s sleeve and gently grabbed hold of the lapels of Grimsley’s tuxedo, pulling their faces close together. Though the chatter around him threatened to drown out his words, he spoke quietly.
“You’re no jerk and I’m no jerk, and you know as well as I do that this kid has a long way to go before she should be put in front of a serious audience. If it wasn’t for the Piccolino Strad she’d sound like a dozen other talented kids.” He patted Grimsley gingerly on the cheek.
“Not sure what you mean, Sol,” said Grimsley, clearly uncomfortable not only at Goldbloom’s close presence but also the essence of what he was saying. He looked down nervously, staring at his maroon bow tie, then darted a glance at Lilburn for help—Lilburn returned only a shrug—trying to avoid Goldbloom’s eye contact. “Everyone just loved her.”
“They also loved the emperor’s new clothes,” said Goldbloom. “For the kid’s own sake, give her some time. Okay, Trevor?”
“Well, I’ll certainly convey that message to Victoria. I mean, it’s really the teacher’s decision.”
“It certainly is. And I already have. See ya later,” said Goldbloom as he wended his way through the throng back to the food table.
“You’ll excuse me too, Trevor,” Lilburn said, exploiting this sudden opportunity to pry himself from Grimsley, “but I need to follow up on Mr. Goldbloom’s comments.”
Without waiting for a reply he made his way in the same direction.
He caught up to Goldbloom, who seemed to have expected him.
Goldbloom said, “You know, Martin, you’re a smart guy.” Lilburn gave a small nod of thanks. “You MAP people had a good idea. When you started. Now, well, let’s say, now it’s a different animal.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Well, you want to promote your own clients. Fine. Business is business. But what you guys are doing goes way past that. You guys drag the competition through the dirt. Don’t forget, Groupies aren’t the only talented young musicians on the block. But after you get through chewing up and spitting out your nonclients in the press, and with Strella’s behind-the-scenes phone calls . . . Jesus Christ, no wonder their careers take these sudden nosedives. Fewer and fewer orchestras book them for engagements, and then, poof, they’ve disappeared, like this champagne I’ve been drinking. Hey, waiter!”
Lilburn began to protest, but Goldbloom went on. He grabbed two champagnes and handed one to Lilburn.
“Also—and Martin, I’m no kid, I know what you guys are up to—this ‘volunteer’ crap.”
“Crap?”
“Yeah, crap. You know. Shit. I’m sure that over the years, seeing how competition is so stiff, it’s got to require more and more business-related expenses—travel, meals, lodging, even time.”
“Yes?”
“So, if your ‘volunteer’ work is essentially the same as the for-profit work you do in the normal course of business, what’s the difference?”
Goldbloom left the question dangling as his hand shot out like a frog’s tongue, latching on to a mini–egg roll as it passed by on a tray.
“Let’s face it, they’re essentially one and the same. Right, Martin?”
“I don’t see what you’re driving at.”
“So the members of the MAP Group are pocketing, tax free, funds from public and private donations for doing exactly the same stuff you’re already getting paid for. Further—”
“I think I need to go write my—”
“Hold on, Martin, I’m still answering your question. Further, as a nonprofit, it never looks good at the end of the year to be too much in the black, right? So you have to make sure that the millions you guys raise go somewhere—‘somewhere’ being your expenses and ‘consulting fees.’ ”
“Mr. Goldbloom. You are welcome to check our books. We have the finest accounting firms go over them with a great deal of scrutiny and they assure us—”
“Martin. Look at me. Look who you’re talking to. Sol Goldbloom. I’m no kid, like the Vander girl over there—sweet kid. I’m in the music business too. And I’ve got my own fine accountant scrutinizing me up the ass. But you guys take the cake. You guys are the board of MAP, and you’re also independent contractors, at least as far as the IRS is concerned, right? That gives you 501(c)-(3) status as a charitable organization, right? Plus there’s no oversight or accountability to speak of, no one to say what you can or can’t do with the money, right? Boychik, you’ve got ’em coming and going. Mazel tov!”
“Ah, Mr. Goldbloom, what a pleasant surprise.”
Lilburn had not even been aware of Strella’s emergence from the crowd, but now that he had an ally, he looked heavenward in thanks.
“Hey, Strella,” said Goldbloom, unperturbed, “you put on a nice party.”
“An important occasion needs a little festivity. Martin, you’re looking a little flushed. Are you feeling all right?”
“Mr. Goldbloom seems to believe we, at MAP, are somewhat unscrupulous in how we handle our affairs.”
“Does he? Well, he’s absolutely right. Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Goldbloom?”
“Excuse me?” said Lilburn. Could he have heard correctly? The room was noisy, after all. He was feeling suddenly woozy.
“I asked Mr. Goldbloom if he wants a drink.”
“I’m referring to your prior statement. You agree with him?”
“Of course. Business is business. We do what we need to do to get ahead—short of breaking the law, of course—and we’ve been damned successful. Just look around you.”
Strella waved his arm like the pope greeting the throng at St. Peter’s Square on Easter Sunday, encompassing the room and all its occupants, but somehow his gesture suggested all of New York was in his grasp.
“Well, I’m looking around me,” said Goldbloom, “but what I see is a little different from what you see. When you guys started MAP, you were working in the best interests of young musicians.”
“And you think now it’s different?”
“Strella, I hate to tell you this, but I’ve got some bad news for you. Now it’s exactly the reverse. Your kids are fodder for your own interests—you just shoot them out, whoosh! Jettisoned like . . .”
“Flotsam?”
“Thank you, Martin. Like flotsam, only half prepared for the concert world—and you know very well that world can be pretty nasty—and you do it with a lot of slick PR.
“And here’s the point. Now, you have to make sure your Groupies make it, whethe
r they’re capable or not. I really mean, you have to, or else you’re going out of business because now you need the money. When you were little, you were respected. Now that you’re big and powerful machers, you’re just the most feared.”
Lilburn was about to protest, “No, that’s not the way it is,” but his tongue was moving uncharacteristically slowly and Strella placed a restraining hand on Lilburn’s arm, replying, “And the most sought after.”
“Sought, shmought, you think all these people you’re waving at are here because they like you? They’d just as soon toast your ass as toast your health.”
“Well put, Mr. Goldbloom.” Strella laughed, unfazed. “Don’t you think so, Martin?”
Lilburn, for once, found himself at a loss for words.
“I’ll see you characters later,” said Goldbloom. “Thanks for the party.”
He waved as he started making his way back to the buffet, Lilburn staring after him.
The only salaried employee of the MAP Group was Rachel Lewison. She wrote the grant proposals, set up appointments, arranged catering for events such as tonight’s, and did anything else that was required of her. For her efforts in raising several million dollars a year she received a salary of fifty-thousand dollars, barely enough to survive in the city plus buy the evening gown that she was wearing tonight—chic bone white, low cut in the back. It helped Rachel in her job that she was also a violinist, but at this point she barely had the time or inclination to practice anymore. Her career as a performer never blossomed, though she once had been a student of both Daniel Jacobus and Victoria Jablonski. Being the business manager of MAP was her booby prize from Victoria.
This time it was Rachel Lewison carrying a glass of champagne whom Sol Goldbloom accidentally bumped into on his way to the caviar.
“Jesus Christ! Can’t you watch where the hell you’re going?” she screamed.
Lilburn, shell-shocked eyes still on Goldbloom, could hear her even from where he was standing.
Goldbloom looked amused and appeared to say something conciliatory.
“Asshole,” sneered Rachel, turning her back and pushing people aside as she headed toward Lilburn and Strella.
Lilburn saw Goldbloom chuckle, then resume his beeline to the buffet.
“I can’t stand that man,” Rachel hissed into Strella’s ear, ignoring Lilburn. “He could have ruined my dress.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Strella said, putting his hand, consolingly, on the pale skin of Rachel’s back. Lilburn tried to neither look nor listen.
“It could be worse,” Strella continued. “It could have been that blind old goat, old—”
“Jacobus,” interjected Lilburn.
Rachel’s eyes turned to Lilburn, burning into him.
“What did I do?” he asked. “I only said his name.”
“Jacobus. I loathe him,” said Rachel.
“Yeah, old Jacobus,” mused Strella. “Didn’t I see him groping around here a little while ago?” His attention returned to Rachel. “Anyway, hon, just have a good time, okay? You’ve done a great job putting this shindig together, so put those old farts out of your mind.”
His hand went lower down her back. Lilburn, unable to avert his eyes, noticed goose bumps blossom on her flesh.
“Mmm. You smell good tonight,” Strella whispered into her ear.
Rachel looked directly into his eyes, a cryptic smile on her face, as she raised her glass to her mouth.
He sniffed her neck. “What’s that perfume you’ve got on?” His hand slipped inside the back of the dress, migrating downward. She stood there, not moving, her champagne glass stationary on her lips, staring into the crowd. Lilburn quickly turned his head away.
Out of the corner of his eye Strella saw the look on Lilburn’s face. “Rachel, honey, how about getting Martin and me a refill on our champagne? Atta girl.”
As soon as she left Strella said, “What now?”
“Anthony, we need to have a meeting.”
“Why? Are you worried about Goldbloom’s pet theories? Or what?”
“Just schedule a meeting . . . please. I need some air.”
Lilburn finally made it to the corridor, undoing his bow tie as soon as he was no longer on display.
Portly Harry Pizzi, not long for retirement, had sat in many a chair as a Carnegie Hall guard. Lilburn now found him sitting in yet another in the corridor outside the door to Green Room B—unoccupied but for the Piccolino Strad—where he diligently eyed passersby, paying extra attention to any suspicious-looking ones.
“Hey, Harry.”
“Mr. Lilburn. How are we tonight? Hey, you’re sweatin’ up a storm! You want my handkerchief? Some coffee?”
Lilburn looked first at the wrinkled but relatively clean handkerchief in Harry’s left hand and then at the Styrofoam cup in his right. The cup contained a light brown liquid in which floated what appeared to be the remains of a doughnut.
Lilburn chose the left hand and cautiously wiped his brow. “Thanks. I’ll have this laundered for you. Maybe I’ll take a rain check on the coffee.”
“Hey, you got it. Have a seat.”
Harry pulled up another folding chair. Lilburn sat down.
“Tough night in there?” asked Harry.
“Let’s just say that working the crowd isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. How about you? All quiet on the western front?”
“So far. So far. They’ve got two of us on security tonight.”
“Really!”
“Yeah, Arnie Robison—he’s a rookie—he’s standing guard inside by the connecting door between A and B. No one’s allowed to go into B without me or Arnie escorting them in and out. Strict instructions.”
“Two guys for one violin, hmm? Sounds like you’ve got good odds.”
“That’s the idea. We have to check on it every fifteen minutes.”
At that moment, a sulky young man, unshaven and shabbily dressed, tried to stalk into the party carrying a violin case.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Pizzi. “Can I help you?”
“I am Victoria Jablonski student,” said the young man in a questionable Eastern European accent. “He invite me here.”
“I believe you mean ‘she,’ ” said Lilburn.
“ ‘He,’ ‘she,’ it is not your business.”
“Let’s see your ID,” said Pizzi.
“I don’t have ID. I am Victoria Jablonski student, okay?”
“Harry, I have an idea,” said Lilburn. “Why don’t you get Victoria to come out here and identify the young man, and I’ll wait here with him. I’m sure he and I could have an interesting chat.”
“Thanks but no thanks, Mr. Lilburn. If I leave this seat my ass is grass.”
“Well . . . then how about I go and fetch Victoria and you entertain the young gentleman?” Lilburn was already retying his bow tie.
“I’d appreciate that, Mr. Lilburn. I’m sure he and I will hit it off just dandy.”
Even in the crowd, Lilburn had no trouble tracking down Jablonski in her shimmering metallic blue sequined dress and interrupted a heated one-way conversation Jablonski was having with Anthony Strella. “. . . your goddam hands off of her” were her only words Lilburn actually could decipher.
“Excuse me, Victoria.”
Victoria glared at him too.
“Sorry to interrupt your tête-à-tête, but there’s a young man who claims to be a student of yours. The security guard would just like your confirmation. It’ll only take a moment.”
A moment later Jablonski hissed at Pizzi, “Of course he’s my student! He’s been coming here for lessons for the last three months. What kind of security guard are you? Why don’t you keep your eyes open?” she said, turning her back on him.
“Sorry, Miss J. Just tryin’ to do my job,” Harry Pizzi said to Jablonski, already marching indignantly back to the party. Lilburn alone heard Harry’s further description of Miss J.
Her student, in tow, gave Pizzi and Lilburn a look of trium
phant disdain.
“I see what you mean, Mr. Lilburn. It takes all kinds, don’t it?”
“Harry! Harry! It’s Nick,” squawked a voice from Pizzi’s walkie-talkie.
“Jeez, what is it now?”
“When it rains it pours,” said Lilburn, offering a sympathetic smile.
Nick Flores, the stage-door security guard, reported to Pizzi that someone had just hurled two rocks from the roof of the Joseph Patelson Music House, shattering the stage-door window. Patelson’s was housed in a squat nineteenth-century brick landmark carriage house wedged between skyscrapers at 160 West 56th Street, just across from the Carnegie Hall stage entrance, and was a mecca for musicians searching for just about any music composed in the last three hundred years. Flores thought he had spotted a person on the roof and told Pizzi to come and guard the stage door while he tried to chase down the culprit. Flores logged in the time of the incident at 11:07 P.M.
“My story!” Lilburn exclaimed. He rubbed his hands together and rattled off ideas with machine-gun rapidity. “Rock slung from tiny Patelson’s at monumental Carnegie Hall—David and Goliath theme—aesthetic purity smiting glossy bad taste. Headline: ‘Vander and Vandal Knock Down Doors of Carnegie Hall!’ ” He looked again at his watch. Still almost an hour. Still time!
Pizzi turned off the walkie-talkie, muttering, and entered Green Room B. “They shoulda tore down that dump across the street years ago, just like they shoulda tore down this one when they had the chance in ’60,” he said as he looked in on the violin to make sure it was still safe, closed the door, and waddled as quickly as he was able to Green Room A. “This buildin’s gonna kill me yet.” With retirement around the corner, he didn’t want to screw up and leave his post unprotected. Lilburn followed.
People were starting to depart the reception for home. He and Pizzi swam against the tide to get to Robison. The MAP people were getting ready to leave, as was “Victoria Jablonski student.” A handful of Kamryn’s admirers, some of them carrying violin cases, meandered about, soaking up her aura for as long as possible. The cleanup crew from Classical Taste catering was clearing off tables. No sign of Jacobus.
