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me…Sure, I know all that. I’ve heard all that, but these guys, you give 'em a finger, next they want your nuts. I give in on this one, next you know, he’s comin’ up with something else…Tell 'em no; and if he don’t get it, spell it for him. You know how to spell 'no’? I’ll tell you. N-O. Learn it, Ivan. Y’wanna know how I got rich? I got rich saying 'no,’ not 'yes.’…I don’t want to think it over, Ivan…Anyhow, that’s not what I called you about. What I called you about is I’m having trouble—my hands full—with this Alicia character…Did I say she wasn’t good? Sure, she’s good, but she wants to be the star of the show—what am I saying? Wants to be? She thinks she is the star of the show. And, by the way, what’s her beef with you , do y’know?...Well, me neither, but she keeps hocking me day in day out about your stuff…”
    He listened, saw me watching him, winked mischievously, then wagged his head from side to side.
    “What do I know what? Your colors, your lights—who knows—your beard, I suppose. I said to her, 'Look, lovey, why don’t you leave kickin’ to the Rockettes…’ The Rockettes…The Rockettes , for Chrissake. The Radio City Music Hall…Yeah…Then I tell 'er—'Whyncha talk to him , not me?’ She says no—she’s got to play it cool with you…Listen, don’t mention I said anything, y’know? The one thing we don’t need at this point is dissension. I’ll try to find out specifics about what’s eatin’ her, and if I do, I’ll lay it on you…O.K. And listen, Ivan. One thing sure. You’re my boy.”
    He did not hang up. Instead, he handed me the phone and said, “Alicia.”
    I reached her at once and gave back the phone.
    “Beautiful?” he said, dripping charm. “How we doin’?…Good, good. Look I’ve just had forty long Russian minutes on the phone with a no-friend of yours…Ivan. Mr. Kurlansky…Search me, but he’s got nothin’ but beefs about your stuff…That’s what I told him, I said talk to her , her hearing aid’s workin’—but he says no, he wants me to be the baddie…I swear I don’t know. Colors, mostly—and he says a lot of the period stuff, especially the men, is all wrong. He says maybe for England, all right, but n.g. for U.S. From the what?...Oh, yeah. American fashion magazines. All right, I’ll tell 'im he’s wrong…And listen, Kiddo. You’re my Kiddo. O.K.?”
    He handed me the phone. “Not that I owe you any goddamn explanations,” he said. “Who the hell are you , anyway? But just so you understand—the way to keep these bastards on their toes is to let them know they’re not perfect. With those two, it’s like this—whether they like each other or not personally, who knows, who cares? But they do have respect for each other’s work and stuff—so my technique is gonna help them both, without them knowing it even. Understand?”
    “Of course.”
    “What else? Oh, yeah. Did Chris give you the rewrite on Scene Three?”
    “Yes, he did.”
    “So why didn’t you give it to me? What’re you savin’ it for? Armenian Easter?”
    “I haven’t had a chance, Mr. Clune. You came in and started phoning right off.”
    “What’s more important, for Chrissake, a phone call or a rewrite?”
    I heard myself yelling. “You didn’t give me a chance , God damn it! Here it is, so knock it off!” I threw the red manila envelope on the desk. He stared at me, shaken. He started to say something, stopped, started again, and blinked. Finally, words came.
    “What is it with you? Your period, or what?”
    “None of your goddamn business !” I said.
    A silence. Then his placating voice, even more irritating than his scolding voice. A kind of whine.
    “Come on, Midge. I was teasing . Having fun. You know that. What’s the fun of the business if you can’t have some fun? Right?”
    “I’m too old for teasing.”
    “All right. I’m sorry. Right. My apologies. O.K.? Mea culpa .” (Where did he get that ?)