I glanced at the approaching figure, just another nobody at a glance, a man of average size in glasses and business suit, his face graced by a receding crew cut, but in reality one of America’s most popular, powerful syndicated columnists.
Then I was on my feet grinning and we were shaking hands, Hy Gardner and me.
“What brings you back to town?” I demanded cheerfully. “Seems like you just left.”
He shrugged and took a chair between us. “Just because the Trib is dead doesn’t mean my column isn’t alive and well. A couple of Broadway musicals are opening this week, and I’m here to cover them.”
“Where’s Marilyn?” Velda asked.
Marilyn had been Hy’s secretary till they married a decade or so ago.
“She’s too smart to head north this time of year,” Hy said. “I forgot how damn gray this city is! Marilyn’s back in Florida where the sun is shining and the water is blue.”
Unbidden, head bartender George arrived to bring Hy a bourbon on the rocks. The two old friends exchanged a smile that said more than words, and George vanished.
Velda explained to me, “Hy called this afternoon, to tell you he was in town, and I did what you would have done.”
I grinned. “Gave him a job.” My eyes met the sly, sleepy ones behind the glasses. “So what can you tell me about Leif Borensen?”
He gave me the kind of casual shrug that always preceded his most elaborate briefings. “He’s a big, blond, good-looking guy, kind of a Forrest Tucker or Sonny Tufts type. Gals love him and the feeling’s mutual. There are no smudges on his personal behavior. He was drafted during the Korean War, put his time in and was given an honorable discharge. Started out as an actor here in town. Came to the Apple from the Midwest and started landing secondary roles in plays and early TV. He even made it into my column a couple of times.”
“Anything notable?”
Hy shook his head. “Played a corpse on Climax who got to his feet too soon and walked out of frame. That got him some attention. The wrong kind, maybe... but at least I spelled his name right.”
“So this was, what? Twenty years ago?”
“Around then. There wasn’t a lot of call for walking corpses on TV, and his looks didn’t make up for a stilted delivery. He was landing stage parts based on his strong jaw and muscular physique, but he was strictly straight and lost his appeal with certain casting directors.”
“So the show business background explains why he headed to Hollywood.”
Hy nodded. “But he wasn’t getting cast out there much, either. Second cop from the left, third Indian from the right. He was barely scrounging out an existence when a rich aunt died and left him some dough and he started taking fliers in real estate. There were still bargains to be had in those days, and he did well. A production company he acquired as an offshoot of one land deal or another turned him into a producer, and for fifteen years, give or take, he’s been churning out drive-in fodder and doing well at it. You know, The Monster That Ate Cleveland, I Was a Teenage Zombie. Also some of those half-hour syndicated jobs that come on in the non-network slots before the news and after the Tonight Show. Private eye junk, mostly.”
Velda smiled at that.
I said, “And now he’s back in the big town.”
Hy sipped bourbon and nodded again. “I hear he’s got the bug to be a real producer. The real Broadway deal. His fiancée, Gwen Foster... have you heard of her?”
“No,” I said.
Velda touched my sleeve. “Sure you have, Mike. She had one of the leads in that Dames at Sea revival we saw last year.”
“Too many dames to keep track of in that,” I said with a shrug. “Is she any good, Hy?”
“Very good. Beautiful singing voice, nice comedic touch, and a real stunner. She could go far. She has the genes for it.”
At first I thought he said “jeans,” but then I got the drift. I snapped my fingers. “Martin Foster. Her father?”
The late Foster had been one of the city’s most successful theatrical producers, right in there with David Merrick.
Hy nodded. “But it’s not a nepotism situation. She’s really got it. And her daddy didn’t produce that revival you saw, either.”
“Still,” I said, skeptical. “Connections.”
“No, Mike,” Velda said. “She’s good. Very good.”
“She may be rushing into this marriage,” Hy said, eyebrows climbing over his glasses.
I frowned. “How so?”
He asked Velda if she minded if he smoked a cigar; she said she didn’t, and he withdrew one of his typical Havana pool cues from an inside pocket like a passport.
“Starting maybe four months ago,” Hy said, getting the cigar going, waving out a match, “Borensen and Gwen’s father were exploring mounting a new production, a musical version of an old Maxwell Anderson play, The Star Wagon. They were courting Johnny Mercer and had him within an inch of a contract. Then, two months ago... and you may remember this from the papers, Mike... Foster shot himself at his Long Island summer home.”
“Anything suspicious about it?”
Hy grinned and Velda smirked; they exchanged eye rolls.
“What?” I said.
“It’s just that you’re so predictable, man,” Hy said, and he finished off his bourbon. George was there with another before Hy had set it down.
Velda said, “Mike, the autopsy said Foster was in an advanced stage of lung cancer. He was a who-knows-how-many-packs-a-day smoker. Maybe you should think about that.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” I said, and got out my Luckies and fired one up. But it only made her smile and shake her head a little.
“When did you take those up again?” Hy asked.
“I needed something to soothe my jangly nerves,” I said. “So Borensen and Gwen got to know each other when he and her father were doing business, probably just a friendly, flirtatious bit that turned into something.”
“It turned into something, all right,” Hy said. “An upcoming wedding. And Martin Foster was a very rich, successful guy, Mike. That bridal shower they want you for will be star-studded and diamond-studded, too.”
“What’s the inside word on Borensen?”
Hy shrugged again. “They say he’s tight with a buck and knows just how to squeeze a nickel. His pictures have made money because he doesn’t spend much on them. He racked up his fortune giving talented young guys a break and seasoned old pros much needed work. His TV shows, you’ve seen ’em, always star washed-up Hollywood guys, with just enough name value left to lend Borensen’s productions some credibility.”
I grunted a laugh. “That just says he’s a good businessman. What about personally?”
“He seems well-liked, as far as that goes. He keeps a low profile. Despite his acting background, he’s never given himself a role. His kind of producing hasn’t got him much attention anywhere but the Hollywood trades, and maybe those monster magazines the kids read.”
“You smell an opportunist, Hy? Is he gold-digging that girl?”
The columnist’s smile was small but hugely cynical. “Look, Mike, Gwen Foster’s rich and beautiful and talented. What’s not to love? But Borensen’s already got plenty of dough. On his own terms, he’s a hell of a success. What he doesn’t have is that glow of show business royalty that the Foster name can bring him.”
I blew smoke skyward. “So where is this headed? Maybe he produces a successful Broadway musical with his talented bride, sells the movie rights to a big Hollywood studio, and finagles a producer spot for himself. And suddenly he’s climbing.”