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now. Go to page a hundred and twelve.”
    I twist around. Oliver’s here , I mouth.
    Next I hear a male voice that sounds as if it’s coming from a speakerphone. “I think we should leave it till the morning when we’re fresher. Let’s wrap it up.”
    “I want to finish at least this section tonight,” Oliver says. “Come on. Page a hundred and twelve.”
    “Who is Oliver talking to?” Trixie whispers in my ear.
    I shake my head. I don’t recognize the other voice. But I’m pretty sure I know what the men are talking about. Known as the libretto, or the book, it’s the script for a musical, for all the words that aren’t sung. Lisette wrote every one of those words and balked at changing any of them. It didn’t matter what anybody else wanted, not even Oliver, and in theater the director is The Big Dog. That’s why Lisette went ballistic when the new scene began. She didn’t write it.
    Lisette protected her work like a tigress does her cubs. But she’s not around to protect it anymore. Which means Oliver can make all the changes he wants.
    The unknown male voice pipes up again. “What was that line we had about the foxhole?”
    “That was good,” Oliver says. “What was that?” Silence, then: “You know, I marked up this section on another copy. I think I left it onstage. Let me go get it,” and we hear Oliver stride out of his office and away from us.
    “Come on,” I hiss, and sprint as noiselessly as I can up the corridor past Oliver’s office to a production room beyond. We slip inside and I close the door most but not all of the way. I want to hear the rest of this conversation, which some people might construe as eavesdropping.
    “We can’t go to the stage until Oliver’s left the theater,” Trixie whispers.
    “That could take a while,” Shanelle mutters.
    “It could,” I whisper back. “But don’t you want to hear what else they say? And isn’t it weird that Oliver’s here this late?”
    “Why isn’t he home doing this?” Trixie wants to know.
    “Maybe he has his kids this week,” Shanelle says. “Remember he said he hates being home when he has his kids?”
    “I hoped he was joking,” Trixie says.
    Oliver might be a dweeb, but he’s a Broadway powerhouse dweeb, which explains why he has three ex-wives and four children.
    I hear footsteps coming and make a zipping motion across my mouth.
    “I’m back, Enzo,” Oliver says a few seconds later. “I found it.”
    I twist around and mouth the name Enzo . Both Trixie and Shanelle nod with understanding. Oliver must be speaking with Enzo Donati.
    None of us have met Enzo, but we keep hearing his name. He’s famous for being a “script doctor” for plays and musicals, hired to make changes the writer can’t or won’t make. He’s not brought in when productions are going great guns, I can tell you. I know he worked with Oliver in the past. I read that when I was boning up on Oliver Tripp Jr. before I came to New York.
    Lisette exhibited her typical charm the one time Enzo’s name came up. “He’s talentless. Those who can’t do, consult,” she informed me with a glare, trying to dis both Enzo and me in one fell swoop. Unbeknownst to her, I was thrilled to be mentioned in the same breath.
    I had no idea Enzo was involved with Dream Angel . It’s certainly not public information, which this sort of thing usually is, to let critics and audiences know that directors are doing everything they can to improve a troubled production. And from the way Enzo and Oliver are talking about the libretto, it sure seems like tonight is not Enzo’s first time working on it. So I have to conclude that some time back, without Lisette’s consent, Oliver hired Enzo on the sly.
    The two of them must have come up with a great line because they start cackling to beat the band. “That’s good,” Enzo says, “that’s really good. But I’m thrashed. That’s it for me for tonight.”
    “Come on—”
    “No, that’s it. Don’t