Carrie finished her conversation and hung up. “Oh, you’re awake. Good morning. Your housekeeper made me tea and toast.” She began pulling on clothes. “I’ve got a dance class in half an hour, then I’m meeting my designer at the apartment. I’d like you to attend my three o’clock meeting with Mark Goodwin, if you’re available.”
Stone pressed the button on the remote control that raised his bed to a sitting position. “Good morning, Carrie,” he said. “I should tell you that I have no experience with theatrical work, so I’m not sure what use I’d be to you.”
“I just want you to represent me in dealing with Goodwin. I’m told he has a boilerplate client contract that isn’t entirely client-favorable, and I think I need some help with my negotiations with him.”
“Okay. What time?”
She handed him a slip of paper with the address. “Three o’clock. Be five minutes early, will you?” She bent over and kissed him. “You were just great last night; now I’ve gotta run.”
“You’re going to a dance class in an LBD?”
“I’ve got dance clothes in
my locker at the studio. Bye-bye.” Then, with a wave, she fled downstairs.
Stone shaved and showered, got dressed, had some breakfast, and went down to his office. Once again, “Page Six” in the Post awaited him:
Last night at a black-tie dinner for fifty at the home of Broadway angels David and Shirley Medved, Carrie Cox, the new girl in town, continued her sweep through Broadway circles by signing with superagent Mark Goodwin on a handshake. We hear that, before the day is out, he’ll have her signed to her first major role.
My God, Stone thought. How does she do this? His phone rang. “Hello?”
“It’s Dino. You seen the Post?”
“Yeah, just now.”
“How does she do this?”
“I was just wondering the same thing. I was with her continuously from seven last evening until about an hour ago, and I never saw her make a phone call until this morning. She must be communicating psychically with ‘Page Six.’ ”
“Don’t get knocked down in the whirlwind.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Dinner?”
“See you at eight thirty.”
“Are you bringing the girl?”
“I don’t know yet.” Stone hung up.
MARK GOODWIN’S SUITE of offices was upstairs over a big Broadway theater and reached by a tiny elevator. Carrie was sitting in his reception area, flipping through a fashion magazine.
“Oh, hi,” she said. She turned to the receptionist. “Now you can tell Mr. Goodwin we’re here.”
The woman spoke on the phone. “You can go right in,” she said.
Stone followed Carrie into a large office overlooking Schubert Alley. Mark Goodwin kissed Carrie, shook Stone’s hand, and waved them to a sitting area with a sofa and chairs.
“I had lunch with Del Wood,” he said. “My girl is typing up the contract now.”
“Contract?” Carrie asked.
“Two contracts, actually,” Goodwin replied. “One between you and Del and one between you and me.”
“Tell me about the one between Woodie and me.”
“Oh, we sorted things out over lunch and worked out what may be the best deal for a first-time starring role in the history of the Broadway theater.”