I knew nothing about Gypsies and I had to do research. Where could I find out about them? I called the police station and asked to speak to a detective.
“What can I do for you?”
“I would like to interview some Gypsies. Do you know where I can find some?”
He laughed. “Yeah, usually we have them locked up in the station. At the moment they’re all out. I can give you the name of the man who calls himself ‘the King.’”
“Perfect.”
His name was Adams and the detective told me where to get in touch with him. I called Adams and told him who I was, and invited him over to the apartment. He was a tall, burly man, with black hair and a deep, gravelly voice.
“I’d like to talk to you about Gypsy customs,” I said. “I want to know all about the way you live.”
He sat there, silently.
“I’ll pay you for it,” I said. “If you talk to me and tell me everything I need to know, I’ll pay you—” I hesitated “—a hundred dollars.”
His face lit up. “Fine. You can give me the money now, and—”
And I knew I would never see him again. “No. I want you to come here once a week and we’ll talk and I’ll give you some money each time you come for an hour.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“Now, start talking.”
He talked and I made notes. I wanted to know the Gypsy customs, how they lived, dressed, talked, and thought. At the end of three weeks, I knew enough about Gypsies to start writing the play. When I finished it, I showed it to Jorja.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “Who are you going to take it to?”
I had already decided that. “Gower Champion.” He had just directed a Broadway hit called Bye Bye Birdie.
I went to see Gower. He had been a musical star at MGM, had gone on to Broadway as a director, and had become a big success.
“I have a play I’d like you to read,” I told him.
“Fine. I’m leaving for New York tonight. I’ll take it with me, and read it on the plane.”
I had foolishly hoped that he would do what Desi Arnaz did and read it immediately. “Thank you.”
When I got home, Jorja said, “What did he say?”
“He’s going to read it. The problem is that I heard he has a lot of other projects in the works. Even if he’s interested, it may be a long time before he does this.”
Gower Champion called the next morning. “Sidney, I think it’s great,” he said. “It’s going to make a wonderful musical. There’s been nothing like it on Broadway. I’m going to call Charles Strouse and Lee Adams, who wrote the score for Bye Bye Birdie, and bring them on board.”
For some reason, I felt no excitement. I had had too many disappointments. I managed to sound enthusiastic. “That’s great, Gower.”
I hung up the phone and thought of all the dreams that had never come true.
I waited to hear from Gower, and five days later he called. He sounded angry.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“No. I told Strouse and Adams that I wanted them to do the music for this show and they’re asking for a bigger percentage. They’re ungrateful bastards. I told them I wouldn’t give it to them.”
“So who do we—?”
“I’m not going to do the show.”
A year later, someone else opened a show on Broadway called Bajour. It was about Gypsies living in New York.
At a time when I should have been depressed, I felt elated. I remembered what Dr. Marmer had said about manic depression. It’s a brain deviation that involves episodes of serious mania and depression, where moods swing from euphoria to despair . . . a major contributing factor in thirty thousand suicides a year. I was euphoric. I felt that something wonderful was going to happen.
It came in the form of a phone call.
“Sidney Sheldon, please.”
“Speaking.”
“This is Robert Fryer.” A very successful Broadway producer.
“Yes, Mr. Fryer?”
“Dorothy and Herbert Fields asked me to phone you. They’re writing a musical for me called Redhead, and they would like to know whether you would be interested in working on it with them. Are you interested?”