CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

THIRTY SIX
Last night was the dress rehearsal. While it was
not quite a disaster, the cumulative total of missed
cues, scene change glitches, sour notes from the
musicians, lights that stayed dark when they should
have been lit and lit when they should have faded and
so forth, were enough to make me feel comfortable
about the show’s prospects.
Yes. I am one of those old timers who

subscribes to the notion that a dress rehearsal that is
riddled with stumbles presages a smooth opening.
Of course, the actual opening night is still a month
in the future. Tonight, though, the first preview was
a hit with the audience. It was a full house, even if
half the house was papered – which is to say that
complimentary tickets were given away at senior
centers and elsewhere throughout the five boroughs.
The truth is I am surprised at how many
people are buying preview tickets. Half the house
paying for the first preview is almost unheard of.
There always is, always was, and as long as there is
Broadway theater, always will be a core group who
see everything in early previews. These days many
of the members of this cohort have blogs or log onto
internet bulletin boards in order to be first with an
opinion.
Tonight the number of audience members was enhanced by morbid gawkers who are more interested in the lurid background story – Danny’s murder – than in the theatrical endeavor on the stage. Still, they are paying customers.
Those expecting a bloody spectacle were of course disappointed. Pretty Lady is at heart a slight story of boy meets girl, girl loses boy, and they find each other again, with some great songs and dances set against the backdrop of New York suffering under Prohibition. It is a lovely bit of romantic musical comedy fluff, a pure and innocent entertainment meant to transport audiences beyond day-to-day reality. A hit in the Great Depression when I produced it under the direction of the late great Julian Marsh, it seems its time has come around again. I have made a ten million dollar bet that that is the case. We shall see.
Detectives Swiecki and Gallagher showed up at the preview tonight, with their wives. I ran into them at intermission and my first thought was to find the company manager and fire her. Cops getting comps as part of a murder investigation is the sort of thing the producer is supposed to be informed about. After introducing me to the women, and their bubbling about how wonderful the show is, Jill Swiecki cleared up my ire, without even being aware that I was suffering it.
“We all took the subway and got the tickets at the TKTS Booth. One of my girl friends said there’s never a line at six, and she was right. She also has the iPhone TKTS app that tells you what tickets are available. So we knew we could get seats before we came. We waited less than five minutes. I’ve never been to a first night before. And now to meet the producer, it’s like a dream.”
“She’ll be talking about tonight for six months, at least,” said Swiecki.
The company manger was safe. These people bought tickets. I was surprised, though maybe I should not have been.
“Do you get to see a lot of shows?”
“Not as many as I’d like to see,” said Mrs. Swiecki. “Now that I know the secret to getting good seats cheap, without having to stand in line for two hours, I’ll be seeing lots more, even if this guy won’t come with me.”
She gave the detective a classic spousal nudge in the ribs with her elbow. Swiecki gave me a sheepish grin and shrugged his shoulders, unsure what the proper response was to it being revealed that he is not a theater buff.
I asked, “How’s the investigation going?”
I was sorry as soon as the words came out of my mouth. A dozen people standing nearby craned their heads towards us.
“Or maybe you’d rather not talk shop right now; since you paid for your tickets. You know, I’d have been happy to comp you.”
Gallagher said, “Since the investigation is ongoing, it’s best we pay our own way. These days everybody’s out to nail anyone in the department for the least appearance of a conflict of interest. Especially with Bernie Kerik getting locked up. Makes us all suspect.”
“He’s constantly checking his nose in the mirror to make sure it’s clean,” said Meg, his wife, with a bright laugh.
“Well, you ladies aren’t cops. How would you like to join me after the show for a late supper next door? Your husbands can watch you eat and drink. Or they can get separate checks. I’ve got to do something to make up for you paying for your tickets. Would dinner with the producer do the trick?”
“Oh wow,” said Jill.
“It will be my pleasure. And we’ll be able to chat in private, gentlemen. If you’re in the mood to chat, that is.”
“That sounds wonderful,” said Meg Gallagher before either of the men could answer.
“Meet me next door at the Café Un Deux Trois. Tell the hostess you’re with me and you’ll get seated right away even if there’s a line.”
Over their shoulders and inside the theater beyond the open double doors I saw Patti waving. She made a pointing gesture up the stairs to the mezzanine, where we were sitting, and I nodded.
I excused myself from the policemen and their wives, reiterating our date next door after the show. Several people offered me their congratulations and I thanked them and said, “I hope you feel that way after the second act.”
Then the house lights flashed on and off, the signal that the show was about to resume, and I joined Patti upstairs in the front row of the mezzanine.
“Who was that you were talking to for so long?” she asked.
“The detectives handling Danny’s case,” I said sotto voce and checking over each shoulder for inquiring ears.
“Didn’t you recognize them?”
“I never met them. I spoke to them over the phone.”
“Oh right,” I said, remembering her melt down.
“Listen, I’m meeting them next door after the show. Might be best if you didn’t come. The wives don’t look like they have much to say to each other but another woman might set either or both of them off. I’d like to find out what there is to find out about the investigation and keep it as short as possible. Do you mind?”
As I whispered I was scanning the audience to see who I could see and saw Mrs. Swiecki looking every which way. They were in about the fifteenth row, center right. At least they got good seats was my thought. Then she looked up and spotted me and waved.
“Not at all. Are you happy with the way the show is going?”
I waved back and she was bouncing in her seat as she said something to her husband. He did not bother to turn around and look. Then the lights began to dim as music filled the air.
“I think so. What do you think?”
“So far it’s gorgeous. From the chatter I heard in the Ladies Room, and if the second act holds, I’d say you have a hit on your hands.”
“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
Everything in the second act did go as it should. I felt that Tim Grainger, playing the young romantic lead, could punch up his energy level a notch or two. But it was only the first preview, after all. All the scenery in the big Times Square number functioned without any glitch. The final curtain was followed by a standing ovation.
I said to Patti, “Remind me to start checking the wraps on a daily basis, would you please?”
“Sure thing, boss,” she said, just like a dame out of the show.
She was smiling ear to ear, which was a relief to see.
“You take the car and driver home. I’ll find a taxi after my meeting.”
“Thanks, Gus. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She went to the Ladies Room again and I left the theater to a lot of congratulations and quick shakes of the hand. Everyone wants to know me again, it seems.
Everything is pointing to a hit, maybe even a megahit.
And here I was thinking I should have been an actor. I am a producer.