Page 2 - Omar!

Omar!

The attaché case threatened to slip from the sweaty clenched palm
of Robert Baron as he reached the head of the grand staircase in the
Old Empire Theatre. It was a sunny morning, but the hall outside the
manager’s office was dark. Baron, chairman of the theatre’s board of
trustees, was no stranger to its inner precincts; he strode into the
office without knocking. The only occupant sat on a low divan near
the window, reading a trade paper.
Baron, aerobically tested by the unaccustomed exertion, put his
case on the desk and sat down in its oversized oak swivel chair.
“Damned elevator wasn’t working.” he croaked.
Barnaby Fey put down the paper and faced the would-be civic and
cultural leader, a successful real estate developer. “I believe most of
the power isn’t turned on until noon,” he said. “The budget appears
rather tight in this house.”
“And your rehearsals begin every day at one p.m. sharp, do they
not?” Baron extracted a fat file folder from his leather-and-platinum
first-class carry-on luggage.
“Yes, that’s right,” replied Fey, a director who prided himself on
thorough preparedness.
“Now, let’s get down to brass tacks. I don’t know whether or not it
is standard practice to hold open rehearsals every day for a week
prior to a show opening, but you must know that a lot of people have
been dropping in to see what you’re doing.”
The folder now lay open in front of Baron, who mopped his brow
extravagantly with a handkerchief extracted from the breast pocket of
his Italian-label suit jacket.
Fey shifted forward on the sofa, using his forearms to support his
upper body on his thighs. He was a small-boned dark-complected
man of middle years and graying hair.
“I have never seen any point in denying access to those whose
word-of-mouth advertising may be obtained at no cost. What others
may do, and with what results, I cannot say.”

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