Set the Stage for Murder by Brent Peterson Read Free Book Online Page B

call it luck, but the savvier among them paid close attention to just how Teddy went about doing what he did. Of course, that was when he still had business rivals because in the current state of American theater, Teddy McDowell was an anomaly. In a rather small section of Manhattan between 41 st and 53 rd and between 6 th and 9 th avenues, a section known all over the world as Broadway, Teddy was now the only independent American theatrical producer. It was extraordinarily expensive to produce a Broadway, shows these days. A straight play with simple sets and even simpler actors could cost upwards of two million dollars, whereas a big musical with a big cast with big egos might be budgeted at eight million and end up costing twelve. Individuals who could afford to and who had an interest in backing these sorts of uncertain ventures were few and far between. Today, the single name above the title was almost a thing of the past in the world of theater. Gone were the days when a producer would build a theatre and produce whatever he wanted to, whenever he wanted to do it. Gone were people like David Belasco, Florenz Ziegfeld, and David Merrick, who once ruled over the Great White Way with iron fists that were able to pummel the best out of the talented people they had assembled. Nowadays, if people produced theatre, they did it in groups or by committee. It wasn’t unusual for a dozen or more persons to be associated with backing a new show. More likely than not, individuals and committees alike had been replaced by corporations and international conglomerations. The maker of the taxicab that dropped you off in front of the theater might also be producing the show you were about to see. Or maybe it’s the distiller of the scotch you had at the bar or the Hollywood studio that hopes to make the film version of the play. This sort of corporatization was now the norm. What was not the norm was one person calling all the shots, paying all the bills, and making or losing all the money, which is why Teddy McDowell was an anomaly. He did it all and he did it all alone. Oh, he listened with an open mind to the advice of his directors, his designers, and even to his actors, if he’d had a drink or two. He also had a small but brilliant support staff. And, of course, he had Vicki, whose advice and opinions he valued as much as he did his own acumen. But at the end of the day, when the buck had to stop, it did so on Teddy’s antique desk in his mahogany-paneled office in mid-town Manhattan. In fact, it stopped at the very place where his assistant, Clea, had just placed a box of Cuban cigars. Teddy could not take his eyes from the box.
    “ I guess Sir Anthony doesn’t know you quit,” she said with a mischievous grin on her face. “Shall I get them out of your sight, or do you want to open it and sniff one just to torture yourself? ‘Cause if you’re gonna do that, I wanna watch.”
    ‘ Maybe you could light one and smoke it for me? Then I’ll just observe … and inhale ” Teddy countered, never taking his eyes from the cigars.
    “ Hmmmm …” Clea muttered as she picked up the box and closed the lid. “It might be fun to put you through all that, but I don’t think I’ve got the stomach for it. How ‘bout we put’em away ‘til we need to bribe a theater owner or an agent or something?”
    “ Okay, Clea, but put them in your desk … and lock the drawer … and under no circumstances should you let me have the key or leave it where I can find it. Got it?”
    “ Yeah, I got it,” Clea answered, “although, you know, a real man could break into that drawer in nothin’ flat.”
    “ Well, then,” Teddy began, “we’re awfully fortunate that I’m only a pale facsimile of those gentlemen with whom you choose to spend your evening hours.”
    “That’s for darn sure, T.M.,” Clea said.
    “ Now, get those things out of here before I fire you,” Teddy commanded.
    “ Not worried one little bit,” Clea countered