He stormed out in a melodramatic huff, knowing Danny was already vanquished.
In fact, Edgar went straight to the downstairs telephone to call Leon Tashkenian, who had already been working in a suite at the Statler since early that morning.
Danny swallowed a tranquilizer, which seemed to have no effect. Then he began to seek consolation from every possible source. First, his agent, Harvey Madison, who had been expecting a call and who was quick to reassure his distinguished client that during a long battle with Edgar Waldorf earlier that evening, he had preserved Danny’s integrity in every way. Leon Tashkenian would receive no billing whatsoever.
“Listen, Dan,” Harvey philosophized, “this is how every Broadway show gets on. It’s patched together with a dozen different shmatas from a dozen different people. And if you’re exceptionally lucky, the critics decide it’s silk and not the same old toilet paper.”
Danny was seething with betrayal.
“Harv, you haven’t got a shred of integrity,” he shouted.
“Danny, wake up. In the theater, ‘integrity’ is what closes on Saturday night. Stop playing Goody Two-Shoes and be grateful Tashkenian was willing to ghost for you. Look, we’ll talk, babe. As soon as the new stuff is in, I’ll fly up to Beantown and we’ll have a quiet meal and a good heart-to-heart. Stay loose.”
As he slammed down the phone, Danny thought of getting drunk. But then suddenly realized that, for all his moral indignation, he had forgotten the devoted Stuart Kingsley, now so brutally banished.
He dialed New York. Nina said her husband could not come to the phone.
“Danny, you’re a ruthless, cold-hearted bastard,” she hissed. “Is there anything or anyone you won’t sell out? He thought you were his friend. God knows he would have protected you —”
“Nina —”
“I hope this show goes down the sewer and you with it. That’s where you all belong!”
“Please, Nina, let me speak to Stuart. Please.”
There was a slight pause. She then replied with subdued fury, “He’s in Hartford, Danny.”
“What the hell’s he doing in —?” But it dawned on him before he had finished his sentence. “You mean the sanitarium?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He got knifed in the back by his friend.”
“I mean, what did he do?”
“Washed down a few dozen pills with a bottle of scotch. Luckily, I came home early —”
“Thank God. Nina, I —”
“Oh, console yourself, Daniel. The doctors understand his case completely —”
“Good,” said Danny, genuinely relieved.
“— They think he’ll probably succeed next time.”
Mercifully, Danny had to be away from Boston for the next few days. First he conducted a pair of concerts in Los Angeles, then took the Red Eye straight to New York. He arrived at 6:00 A.M., caught some sleep in the dressing room, swallowed two “allegro vivaces” for stimulation and went out to rehearse for three hours.
That evening he performed Schoenberg’s complex piano concerto to such rapturous applause that he had to play an encore.
Danny’s choice — a complete musical contrast — revealed that Boston was very much on his mind. He played Mozart’s Variations in C (K 265). Otherwise known as “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
He finally got back to Boston at twenty-five to one. As he entered his suite at the Ritz, the phone was ringing.
“Yes?” he said, sighing wearily.
“Welcome home, Danny, are you free?” It was Edgar.
“Hey, I’m dog tired. Can’t we speak in the morning?”
“No, we’ve got a rehearsal call for eleven and I want to get the parts copied.”
“What parts?”
“Leon’s new material. Can we come up?”
Oh no, did he actually have to meet his nemesis?
“Edgar, you don’t need my approval. I’ve already capitulated. I know it’s terrible without even having to hear it….”
“Then let Leon play it and maybe you’ll change your mind. You might even have a suggestion or two.”
Daniel Rossi was a quick study. He now, as it were, knew the score. Although he had waived his right to veto additional music by Leon Tashkenian, he had retained one privilege, empty gesture though it might be.
Contractually, he could still remove his name from the whole enterprise. And, what the hell, wasn’t that something? Didn’t his name lend class to the marquee? Didn’t his reputation as a serious musician ensure some kind of respect on the part of the reviewers? Edgar still had to stroke him.
“All right. But this has got to be as brief as possible.”
“It’ll be the Minute Waltz,” Edgar blurted. And immediately hung up.
Danny barely had the time to swallow an “Allegro” when he heard a knock. He opened the door with trepidation. There stood a bizarre couple. Elegant, melon-shaped Edgar Waldorf and a youngish, swarthy man with Brillo hair. The latter was garbed in black corduroy, save for a white shirt open amply enough to allow an unobstructed view of a gold medallion nestling in a field of fleecy muscularity.
“Hi.” Leon Tashkenian smiled, offering his hand.
“Bollinger,” said Edgar Waldorf, offering a magnum of champagne.
Danny said nothing. Never squander ammunition in a siege. As the two men entered the room, a waiter suddenly appeared behind them, bearing a tray of three chilled glasses. He retrieved the bottle and proceeded to open and disgorge its contents.
“You played really great tonight,” Tashkenian remarked.
“Thanks,” Danny muttered sarcastically, taking it as typical showbiz bullshit. “Were you in New York today?”
“No. But you were live on WGBH.”
“Oh.”
“Let’s all drink up,” Edgar interposed, foisting champagne glasses into the two composers’ hands. He then raised his own goblet in an emotional toast: “To the Show.”
Leon lifted his glass but did not drink. Danny merely gulped it and sat down.
“Okay, let’s see what you’ve done,” he said, reaching out toward Tashkenian’s sheaf of papers.
“Let him play it,” Edgar insisted.
“I can read music,” Danny snapped.
“I would expect no less of a Harvard graduate, Daniel,” Edgar replied. “But, unfortunately, I am educationally deprived. Besides, I like Leon’s delivery. C’mon, Lee, give out with the material.” And then turning to Danny, he editorialized, “It’s fabulous! Fab-u-lous!”
Boom-barn, boom-boom-bam! Leon played like a mad woodman trying mightily to fell a Steinway.
Danny raised his hand. “Okay. I’ve heard enough.”
“Wait, wait,” Edgar protested, “he’s just warming up.”
Danny capitulated with a sigh and turned to refill his glass.
Gradually through the din a few sounds became intelligible. The tonic, the relative minor, the second, the dominant seventh. Could he have expected anything better than the most hackneyed, overused chord sequence in pop music?
There had been moments in Danny’s life when he had dreamed of becoming Beethoven. Now he merely longed to be deaf. For, among his many virtues, Leon Tashkenian had the voice of a ruptured hyena.
Now and then, Danny could discern a word or two of text. There was something about “Mars,” suggesting that the rhyme “stars” could not be far behind, And it arrived, just as surely as “crying” followed “flying.” At last, on the very brink of a vocal orgasm, Leon screeched “above,” harmonized by an E major seventh.