“No,” I said, hastily. I made a decision. “I’ll be right back.”
I got up and walked over to the entrance, where Vincent Sardi, the owner, was standing.
“Mr. Sardi . . .”
“Yes?”
This was going to be difficult. Vincent Sardi had not built up his business by catering to deadbeats.
“It’s about my check,” I said nervously.
He was studying me. He knows a deadbeat when he sees one.
“Is there something wrong with it?”
“No. It’s fine. I—I just don’t have—I don’t have—you know—the money.” I wondered if Milada was watching. I quickly went on. “Mr. Sardi, I wrote the play that’s opening at the Majestic Theatre, across the street. But it hasn’t opened yet. And at the moment, I—I don’t have enough to—I wonder if you could trust me until the play opens.”
He nodded. “Of course. It’s no problem. And I want you to know you are welcome to come here at any time.”
My spirits lifted. “Thank you so much.”
“Not at all.” He shook my hand. There was a fifty-dollar bill in it.
Our producer, Yolanda, hated everything that Ben and I wrote. I had the feeling she hated it even before she read it.
“The show’s going to be a flop,” she kept saying. “It’s going to be a flop.”
I desperately hoped that she was not psychic.
George Balanchine, on the other hand, along with Felix Brentano and Robert Stolz, loved what Ben and I were writing.
During rehearsals, Yolanda leaped around the stage like an overgrown grasshopper, barking orders at everyone. The professionals were too busy to be bothered.
One day, during a break mid-rehearsal, Balanchine came to me and said, “I would like to talk to you.”
“Certainly. Is anything wrong, George?”
“No. A friend of mine, Vinton Freedley, is producing a new play. He’s looking for a writer. I told him about you and he would like to meet you.”
“Thanks,” I said gratefully. “I’d love to meet him.”
Balanchine looked at his watch. “As a matter of fact, you have an appointment to see him at one o’clock.”
Two Broadway plays on at the same time? Unbelievable.
Vinton Freedley was one of the most important producers on Broadway. Among his credits were Funny Face, Girl Crazy, and at least half a dozen more hits. Freedley was an efficient, down-to-business producer who got right to the point.
“George tells me you’re good.”
“I try.”
“I’m doing a show called Jackpot. It’s about a girl who raffles herself off to raise money for the war effort and the winning ticket is won by three soldiers.”
“It sounds like fun,” I said.
“I already have a writer, Guy Bolton, but he’s English and I think he needs an American to work with him. Would you like the job?”
“I certainly would.” Then I added, “By the way, I have a collaborator, Ben Roberts. He would work with me.”
Freedley nodded. “That’s fine. The score is being written by Vernon Duke and Howard Dietz.”
Two top Broadway names.
“How soon can you start?” Vinton Freedley asked.
“Right away.” I tried to sound confident, but at the back of my mind was the thought that the call could come in at any second and I would have to report back for advanced flight training.
Freedley was talking. “We’ve begun casting already. So far, we have Allan Jones and Nanette Fabray. Let me show you the set.”
I was surprised that the set had been built before the play was written. Freedley walked me over to the Alvin Theatre and we went inside.
On the stage was a huge white southern house with a picket fence.
I looked at Freedley, confused. “You said this show was about American soldiers who win a girl in a—”
“This is the set from my last show,” Freedley explained. “The show flopped, so we’re going to use the set for this one. It will save a lot of money.”
I wondered how we were going to work a gothic southern mansion into a modern war story.
“Let’s go back to the office. I want you to meet Guy.”
Guy Bolton turned out to be a charming Englishman in his fifties who had written several plays with P. G. Wodehouse, the British icon.