The Chelsea Girls(40)
Hazel placed her hands on her mother’s shoulders and stared hard into her eyes. “I am the boss, Mother. You get it? Just like George Abbott, Moss Hart.”
Her mother began to say something smart, but Hazel shook her head. “No more dismissing this. It’s a big deal. You can come to opening night, but only if you are there to be pleasant and say nice things to me. Period. Otherwise you can stay home.”
Her mother frowned but remained quiet. Hazel swept away, grabbing our coats and hats from the rack in a fluid motion and letting the front door bang hard behind us.
As we walked outside, she hugged me. “Thank you.”
“You were great. Your best role yet.”
“Believe me, I wasn’t acting.” She took a deep breath, pleased with herself. “Now it’s your turn. Next time you see Arthur, you tell him what’s what. I’ve got your back.”
If it were only that easy. But I didn’t say that. I just nodded and whistled for a taxi.
* * *
Mr. Canby pulled me aside at rehearsal the next day. Not just aside, he yanked me into the house manager’s office near the front of the theater, kicked out the house manager, and closed the door.
“Am I fired?” I was only half joking, but Mr. Canby laughed hard and loud. Nervous laughter, forced.
“No, of course not.”
I’d hoped he might have some news about Floyd, but I was wrong.
“I have a favor to ask of you, Miss Mead. I’ve arranged a meeting with you and an important person, someone whose approval is crucial to our little play here.”
“An investor?”
“Not quite. After that disastrous radio interview, he reached out, saying he wants assurance that all is on the up-and-up. I’m hoping you can tell him that it is.”
Strange choice of words. I was intrigued. “Isn’t Hazel the right person for this?”
“No, I want star power. You need to dazzle him with your Hollywood glitter.”
“Darn, I forgot to pack it in my handbag this morning.”
More fake laughter. Whoever this guy was, he had Mr. Canby shaking in his shoes.
“No need to mention it to Hazel, she has enough on her plate as it is. He’s at the Pierre hotel.”
“Swanky. How will I know who he is?”
“Just ask for Laurence Butterfield.”
Now it was all coming into focus. “This is the Butterfield with the supermarket empire? The same lunatic who crusades against commie sympathizers?”
Mr. Canby blanched. “Please don’t put it like that. Look, he heard the radio broadcast and is threatening the show with picketers, and I was hoping you could convince him to back off.”
“Why don’t you have Hazel meet him, and let them talk like two grown-ups? I bet she’d love a chance to put him straight.”
“First of all, that’s the last thing we need. You know Hazel will go on the attack, like she did during the interview.”
“Can you blame her?”
“No, no, of course not. But we need a level head. Butterfield’s got a direct line to a lot of people at the top, including the FBI.”
I knew he was thinking of Floyd. And I knew I’d do whatever I could to help. While I hated going behind Hazel’s back, I could see Mr. Canby’s point.
* * *
The somber clerk behind the desk at the Pierre directed me to a suite on the thirtieth floor, where a woman sporting a bouffant hairdo that resembled cotton candy dipped in ink opened the door.
“Please, come in,” she said, without a trace of welcome. I followed her into the living area, where a slight man with a crew cut sat reading the newspaper. He folded it up carefully as he saw me coming, and we sussed each other out. His suit was too large for his frame, as if he was trying to emphasize shoulders he did not have. His profile disappointed further, with a chin that receded into his neck.
But when he stuck out his hand, an entirely different energy emanated from that skinny scaffolding. His grip was firm, and he spoke with a baritone that almost rattled the teacup next to him.
“I’m Larry Butterfield. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Mead.”
“Likewise.”
He ordered his wife to pour us tea and she did so, before leaving the room and closing the door quietly behind her.
“Miss Mead, I’ll get right to the point. I was listening to my favorite radio show and was very disappointed.”
“How so, Mr. Butterfield?”
“Don’t get me wrong, you were marvelous—I’ve seen a few of your movies and enjoyed them very much—but I didn’t like what I heard from that director girl.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but you see—”
He cut me off. “Canby says you know Hazel Ripley quite well, professionally and personally.”
“Yes. We met in the war, in Naples. She’s a talented actress, and a skilled writer.”
“I see. Her show—your show—opens soon. I’m surprised you’d be involved, a movie actress of your stature.”
“Have you read it?”
“I don’t need to read it, I already know everything I need to know about it.” Mr. Butterfield took a sip of tea and pursed his lips. Or maybe that was his usual tea-tasting face. “Canby’s making a huge mistake. Don’t think I don’t know what he’s up to, sending along a pretty gal to try to convince me otherwise. Let me tell you, your playwright-slash-director is not to be trusted.”