Show Business Is Murder by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

to the accompanists and the dancers began.
    She was a head taller than any of the others and another chorus dancer might have gotten lost in the back row. But not Miranda. She gave off a kind of glow. A blonde iridescence on long, elegant legs.
    David looked over at Bobby. No reaction. Was he blind?
    When the dancers finished, Bobby said, “Thank you.” The dancers felt the rejection, took it personally. David could see the slump in the shoulders as they left the stage. But not Miranda. She edged out as the next group of dancers came on and took their places.
    Bobby said, “That one.”
    â€œThe tall blonde?”
    â€œYes.”
    So like Bobby, David thought, as he raced for the stairs to the wings. He liked to make them suffer a little before he gave them the good news.
    She was on the street, her heavy bag hanging from her shoulder, when David caught up to her. “He wants you,” he told her.
    Her eyes were a deep gray-blue, confused now. Her brows pale as her hair. “Who?”
    â€œBobby. He wants you. I need your name, and your agent’s name, address, and phone number.” I need you, he thought.
    â€œI don’t have an agent,” she said. “I haven’t been here long enough.” It was just starting to sink in. “He wants me?”
    â€œYes. Rehearsals start in four weeks. Are you available?”
    She began laughing, a deep throaty laugh, which is when David fell for her big time.
    â€œMy name is Miranda Donnelly,” she said.
    She gave him her phone number. “Find an agent and get back to me,” David said. “You should have an agent, although the dance contracts are usually minimum. I’ll find you an agent. Leave it to me. You’re going to be a star. You need someone who knows how to do it. And I’ll help you.”
    She was waiting, looking at him expectantly. “I don’t know who you are,” she said.
    He felt himself flush. “David Sharp,” he said. “I’m the assistant stage manager.”
    She thrust out her hand and smiled at him. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, David Sharp. Thank you for the good news.”
    DAVID SET THE matchbook cover down. Twenty-five years. He would shower her with diamonds. Yes. It would be really big. He’d take over Sardi’s for the night. Let’s see, who owed him? Half the world owed him, though they wouldn’t admit it.
    â€œI don’t want diamonds,” she said. “I just want it to be like it was.”
    â€œI do, too. And it will be, you’ll see. I’ll make it right.”
    â€œOh, David, you always say that.” She covered her mouth.
    It had been wonderful then, when they were both beginning. Fosse, the brilliant Bob Fosse, had created a number just for her.
    â€œHe saw me as . . . what did he call me, David?”
    â€œHis perfect instrument.”
    The show was a big hit. And David became production stage manager, calling the cues. And after the show every night, Miranda was his. All his.
    They were married the week before rehearsals began on Bobby’s new all-dance musical Dancin’, with Miranda as lead dancer. This was when David decided he had to break out, become a producer.
    He had a connection—the father of his Rutgers roommate was president of the teamsters N. Y. local. The connection greased the way for David to get an apprenticeship in ATPAM, the Association of Theatrical Press Agents and Managers. His short term goal was to become a general manager. He would learn the business of producing this way, then do it himself. And he would do it better than anyone had done it before. There’d be no stopping him.
    â€œYou were so intense,” Miranda said. “Sometimes it frightened me.”
    â€œYou were getting what you wanted, why shouldn’t I?”
    David studied the scraps of paper in front of him on the table. It was something specific he remembered making a note of