game.
Salt Lake’s Brahmins mingled together on the polished tile below the glass façade of the concert hall. A line of gushing fountains along the edge of the plaza cooled and moistened the air. Milada spotted a few tuxedos and evening gowns, here and there a black-felt Stetson on top of starched cotton and pressed jeans. It looked like a collision between prom night and Sunday school.
And Milada found that comforting. She had worn her black Mondi to work that day—she’d given her gray to Rachel Forsythe—and though it was a ridiculously expensive outfit, it was cut for utility, not show. Had she appeared at the Met thus attired, the immediate question would have been whether she was dressing down on purpose or by accident. No one cared here, and what a relief that was.
They collected their programs and found their seats. First tier, stage left. A brief inspection told Milada they were just behind the best seats in the house, the corporate patrons. She opened her program and said, honestly surprised, “Keith Lockhart?”
“He splits his time between here and Boston.”
A couple came down the aisle along the railing. The man saw Troy. “Hey, Troy,” said the man, “didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
“Brother Newhall.” They shook hands. The man said, “So who’s this fine young woman you’re with?”
“This is Milada Daranyi.”
“Sister Daranyi, I’m Greg Newhall. My wife Cynthia.”
Milada shook Cynthia’s hand and then Greg’s.
Greg said, “By the way, Troy, how’s the press run on the new Monson book coming along?”
“We begin shipping to the bindery tomorrow.”
“Good, good.”
The Newhalls continued up the aisle to the corporate seats. A few minutes later, a man came walking back down the aisle, a man who knew how to wear a tuxedo. He made a beeline for them, for her. He said, “Milada Daranyi, I presume?”
She didn’t contradict him. He introduced himself. “I’m Russell Stander with Piper Jaffray.”
“Mr. Stander.”
“I hear you’re making a play for WMI. We all know that Daranyi doesn’t buy into positions just to run up the price. Besides, you gotta know by now that the only way in is through the old man.” Russell chuckled. “Good luck cracking that nut. Say, you still with Garrick Burke? We can give you better margins at Piper Jaffray.” He flicked out a business card.
Milada took it and gave it a cursory glance. “We’re very happy with Mr. Burke.”
“Can’t blame me for trying.”
Milada smiled politely.
Russell Stander moseyed back to his group. Troy said, “What was that all about?”
If she had meant to impress the boy with her importance, she had succeeded all too well. “Blood in the water, as Garrick says. Sooner or later the sharks start to circle.” She handed him the business card. “Here. I do hate throwing away these things myself. Bad luck or something.”
The house lights dimmed. Keith Lockhart strode onto stage. The concert began with Ravel. They didn’t play Bolero, thank God. Instead, Valses Nobles et Sentimentales and the Piano Concerto in G. The soloist who performed the latter was proficient and the conducting competent, and passions were kept in check. The orchestra was saving its best for last.
The pianist bowed, the musicians were acknowledged. Mr. Lockhart left the stage. The lights came up for the intermission. Milada excused herself.
The plaza outside the hall was almost devoid of cross traffic, vacant compared to New York. She took out her cell phone and dialed Garrick’s number. The tall granite spires rising above the high walls of Temple Square were lit up in the blue-green glow of the mercury vapor lamps. The Angel Moroni shone like Gabriel at the Second Coming.
She got Garrick’s answering machine. “Garrick, it’s Milada. I’m at the Utah Symphony. Did you know they have Keith Lockhart out here? Anyway, a Piper Jaffray rainmaker picked me out of the crowd and started chatting about Wylde
Salt Lake’s Brahmins mingled together on the polished tile below the glass façade of the concert hall. A line of gushing fountains along the edge of the plaza cooled and moistened the air. Milada spotted a few tuxedos and evening gowns, here and there a black-felt Stetson on top of starched cotton and pressed jeans. It looked like a collision between prom night and Sunday school.
And Milada found that comforting. She had worn her black Mondi to work that day—she’d given her gray to Rachel Forsythe—and though it was a ridiculously expensive outfit, it was cut for utility, not show. Had she appeared at the Met thus attired, the immediate question would have been whether she was dressing down on purpose or by accident. No one cared here, and what a relief that was.
They collected their programs and found their seats. First tier, stage left. A brief inspection told Milada they were just behind the best seats in the house, the corporate patrons. She opened her program and said, honestly surprised, “Keith Lockhart?”
“He splits his time between here and Boston.”
A couple came down the aisle along the railing. The man saw Troy. “Hey, Troy,” said the man, “didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
“Brother Newhall.” They shook hands. The man said, “So who’s this fine young woman you’re with?”
“This is Milada Daranyi.”
“Sister Daranyi, I’m Greg Newhall. My wife Cynthia.”
Milada shook Cynthia’s hand and then Greg’s.
Greg said, “By the way, Troy, how’s the press run on the new Monson book coming along?”
“We begin shipping to the bindery tomorrow.”
“Good, good.”
The Newhalls continued up the aisle to the corporate seats. A few minutes later, a man came walking back down the aisle, a man who knew how to wear a tuxedo. He made a beeline for them, for her. He said, “Milada Daranyi, I presume?”
She didn’t contradict him. He introduced himself. “I’m Russell Stander with Piper Jaffray.”
“Mr. Stander.”
“I hear you’re making a play for WMI. We all know that Daranyi doesn’t buy into positions just to run up the price. Besides, you gotta know by now that the only way in is through the old man.” Russell chuckled. “Good luck cracking that nut. Say, you still with Garrick Burke? We can give you better margins at Piper Jaffray.” He flicked out a business card.
Milada took it and gave it a cursory glance. “We’re very happy with Mr. Burke.”
“Can’t blame me for trying.”
Milada smiled politely.
Russell Stander moseyed back to his group. Troy said, “What was that all about?”
If she had meant to impress the boy with her importance, she had succeeded all too well. “Blood in the water, as Garrick says. Sooner or later the sharks start to circle.” She handed him the business card. “Here. I do hate throwing away these things myself. Bad luck or something.”
The house lights dimmed. Keith Lockhart strode onto stage. The concert began with Ravel. They didn’t play Bolero, thank God. Instead, Valses Nobles et Sentimentales and the Piano Concerto in G. The soloist who performed the latter was proficient and the conducting competent, and passions were kept in check. The orchestra was saving its best for last.
The pianist bowed, the musicians were acknowledged. Mr. Lockhart left the stage. The lights came up for the intermission. Milada excused herself.
The plaza outside the hall was almost devoid of cross traffic, vacant compared to New York. She took out her cell phone and dialed Garrick’s number. The tall granite spires rising above the high walls of Temple Square were lit up in the blue-green glow of the mercury vapor lamps. The Angel Moroni shone like Gabriel at the Second Coming.
She got Garrick’s answering machine. “Garrick, it’s Milada. I’m at the Utah Symphony. Did you know they have Keith Lockhart out here? Anyway, a Piper Jaffray rainmaker picked me out of the crowd and started chatting about Wylde
Similar Books
