he was in New York, he stayed at the Astor Hotel.
By the end of the first week, Dan’s conception of the show had begun to take form. Even the writers got “with it.” They wouldn’t change the awful ties, the wide lapels. Christie actually thought he dressed well. He liked the goddam ties. This was the key to his character, Dan told them. They’d pick some good songs for him to sing, but at the same time allow him to do something corny of his own choosing.
Dan had sent a brief synopsis of the show to Gregory last week. Perhaps the lunch was about the show. But Gregory wouldn’t waste a lunch just to okay a pilot. He’d send down word to go ahead … or to kill it. He hoped Gregory gave him the green light. It would be grim to have put in all this time and work for nothing. He got a headache at just the thought of all those nights in the smoke-filled suite at the Astor. Christie and those cheap cigars. And always the ever-present show girl from the Copa or the Latin Quarter sitting patiently and wordlessly; reading the morning papers; waiting for Christie to be finished. And the stooges—the two alleged “writers” Christie carried with him. Eddie Flynn and Kenny Ditto. They were supposed to supply Christie with jokes. As far as Dan could see they were “gofors.” “Hey, Eddie, go for some coffee.” “Kenny, didya go for my cleaning?” Christie came from a world where a man proved his importance by the stooges he carried. Sometimes he paid Eddie and Kenny as little as fifty dollars a week. When things went well he paid them more. But they were “with him.” He took them to nightclub openings, the racetrack, on tour, and now, as Christie had stated, “My boys must be put on the show as writers. They should each get two C’s a week.”
Dan had hidden his amusement and relief. Four hundred dollars a week tacked on to a budget was minuscule in a majortelevision production. And it would make Christie indebted. Sig and Howie would get the major credit on the screen, and it was always easy to list additional dialogue in small letters in the crawl at the end of the show. Of course they were still far away from the pilot. But if Gregory gave him the Go signal, he could have a pilot on tape by August. He hoped to do the show live—tape it at the same time, so they could use it for delayed markets. They could save a lot of money doing it live and Dan would be a hero if he brought it off.
For a brief moment he felt good. Then he thought of the lunch and the ulcer pain began. What in hell was the lunch all about?
At twelve twenty-five he entered the elevator. The operator punched the button to Penthouse. Dan had once said P.H. also stood for Power House. The name had stuck among the executives. A man could be made or broken up there. Well, he was prepared for anything. He had taken two tranquilizers right after the phone call.
He walked directly to Gregory’s private dining room. He noticed the table was set for three. He was just taking out a cigarette when Robin Stone entered. Gregory walked into the room and motioned them both to the table.
It was a sparse lunch. Gregory was on one of his health kicks. You never knew what to expect. Gregory had a chef who had worked at Maxim’s in Paris. You could come there one day and enjoy a cheese soufflé and flaming French pancakes, sauce that stabbed an ulcer and delighted the taste. This usually happened when Gregory read that a contemporary had died in a plane crash, or was stricken with cancer or some similar inexorable disaster. Then Gregory would smoke, eat all the rich food and say, “Hell, a flowerpot could fall on my head tomorrow.” This state of gastronomic luxury would continue until another contemporary had a heart attack. Then the Spartan regime commenced again. Gregory had been dedicated to this present health kick ever since his last bout of indigestion.
In the beginning the talk was general. They discussed the chances of any team against the Yankees, and
By the end of the first week, Dan’s conception of the show had begun to take form. Even the writers got “with it.” They wouldn’t change the awful ties, the wide lapels. Christie actually thought he dressed well. He liked the goddam ties. This was the key to his character, Dan told them. They’d pick some good songs for him to sing, but at the same time allow him to do something corny of his own choosing.
Dan had sent a brief synopsis of the show to Gregory last week. Perhaps the lunch was about the show. But Gregory wouldn’t waste a lunch just to okay a pilot. He’d send down word to go ahead … or to kill it. He hoped Gregory gave him the green light. It would be grim to have put in all this time and work for nothing. He got a headache at just the thought of all those nights in the smoke-filled suite at the Astor. Christie and those cheap cigars. And always the ever-present show girl from the Copa or the Latin Quarter sitting patiently and wordlessly; reading the morning papers; waiting for Christie to be finished. And the stooges—the two alleged “writers” Christie carried with him. Eddie Flynn and Kenny Ditto. They were supposed to supply Christie with jokes. As far as Dan could see they were “gofors.” “Hey, Eddie, go for some coffee.” “Kenny, didya go for my cleaning?” Christie came from a world where a man proved his importance by the stooges he carried. Sometimes he paid Eddie and Kenny as little as fifty dollars a week. When things went well he paid them more. But they were “with him.” He took them to nightclub openings, the racetrack, on tour, and now, as Christie had stated, “My boys must be put on the show as writers. They should each get two C’s a week.”
Dan had hidden his amusement and relief. Four hundred dollars a week tacked on to a budget was minuscule in a majortelevision production. And it would make Christie indebted. Sig and Howie would get the major credit on the screen, and it was always easy to list additional dialogue in small letters in the crawl at the end of the show. Of course they were still far away from the pilot. But if Gregory gave him the Go signal, he could have a pilot on tape by August. He hoped to do the show live—tape it at the same time, so they could use it for delayed markets. They could save a lot of money doing it live and Dan would be a hero if he brought it off.
For a brief moment he felt good. Then he thought of the lunch and the ulcer pain began. What in hell was the lunch all about?
At twelve twenty-five he entered the elevator. The operator punched the button to Penthouse. Dan had once said P.H. also stood for Power House. The name had stuck among the executives. A man could be made or broken up there. Well, he was prepared for anything. He had taken two tranquilizers right after the phone call.
He walked directly to Gregory’s private dining room. He noticed the table was set for three. He was just taking out a cigarette when Robin Stone entered. Gregory walked into the room and motioned them both to the table.
It was a sparse lunch. Gregory was on one of his health kicks. You never knew what to expect. Gregory had a chef who had worked at Maxim’s in Paris. You could come there one day and enjoy a cheese soufflé and flaming French pancakes, sauce that stabbed an ulcer and delighted the taste. This usually happened when Gregory read that a contemporary had died in a plane crash, or was stricken with cancer or some similar inexorable disaster. Then Gregory would smoke, eat all the rich food and say, “Hell, a flowerpot could fall on my head tomorrow.” This state of gastronomic luxury would continue until another contemporary had a heart attack. Then the Spartan regime commenced again. Gregory had been dedicated to this present health kick ever since his last bout of indigestion.
In the beginning the talk was general. They discussed the chances of any team against the Yankees, and
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