CHAPTER FORTY ONE

FORTY ONE
Ukulele, Baby is a charming little contemporary
musical, full of original sweet songs that move
forward a comic story of a dystopian future. It got rave
reviews when the author and composer, Mac Watson,
mounted it in early 2008. Danny Limm directed it,
which is also how we first came to know each other. I
am the producer.

CHAPTER FORTY

FORTY
London’s vampire, who shall remain nameless,
presented himself at my hotel room door. I opened it
and he pushed past me into the room.
“No need for dramatics or violence,” he said. “I
know you’re in the theater and that violence runs deep
in the American vein, but try and control yourself.
You’re in my town now.”
His dark hair was slicked straight back and
his face was pasty and pale and he was narrow shouldered.
He wore a gray pinstripe suit without
the vest but with a tie. I instantly knew that he was
another vampire and I was taken aback, to understate
the facts. I decided to try subterfuge.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

THIRTY NINE
In 1968, hippie musicals were the rage. Or
rather, one hippie musical was the rage and everyone
who missed out on it tried to find an imitation
substitute. Hair was a huge sensation in its original
incarnation. It was revived of late but believe me when
I tell you that it was not the same thing at all. How
can you have a show about hippies, titled Hair, when
everyone in the cast – male and female – appears
nude on the stage and it is a blatant fact that every one
of them has had a full body waxing, the procedure
known in the contemporary vernacular as a Brazilian?

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

THIRTY EIGHT
Our little supper broke up a short while later
with the detectives promising to be in touch soon.
It was now obvious to me that these guys were not
going to catch Danny’s murderer. Maybe no one ever
would.
As the culprit in more unsolved murders than
I could ever count, the urgency that first gripped me
when Danny died was fading. At the risk of sounding
unfeeling, Danny was selling more tickets dead than
his name would have alive.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

THIRTY SEVEN
I arrived at Café Un Deux Trois a moment
before the detectives and their wives. As I took my
seat I spotted them coming in the door and they saw
me at the same time. Both wives waved. For a second
I had been worried that they would not show up; why
I would worry about that is beyond me. In any case, it
was apparent that any fear of departmental scrutiny
was trumped by marital peace and solicitude.
They crossed to me, pausing to speak briefly to
the hostess when she blocked their way. She turned
her head and looked at me. I gave her a nod and stood
to receive my guests.

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

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

THIRTY FIVE
You often will hear New York theater types –
meaning producers, managers, actors, and especially
playwrights -- bemoan the British presence on
Broadway. The complaint is seldom regarding the
quality of the presentations. More often, it is a general
lamentation that goes something like this: How are our
playwrights or directors or whoever supposed to develop if
we allow the Brits to dominate our stage? It’s a disgrace.
This never would have happened back in the golden era of
Broadway.
Well, I am here to tell you that as long as the
commercial theater has existed in this country, it was
dominated by British imports, and I am not talking
only about Shakespeare.