“I can’t sing the note like that, I need another one.” Milo put his hand over Allen’s forearm, gripping hard with a warning shake of the head. Allen whispered back, “He could sing it if he wanted to, he’s just a lazy guinea.” “Change the note, it doesn’t make much difference now.” Allen snorted. Hilarity was in Boston for its first opening night, and word backstage was that it was gonna flop here, which meant it wouldn’t even open in New York and Milo’s lyricist career would be over before one note was even sung on Broadway. Allen yanked his arm hard away and stomped over, Milo holding his breath like he did ten times a day that Allen was about to get them fired. Milo put his hand half over his face, peeking through his fingers. He saw his friend snatch the music right off the rehearsal piano, and scribble ferociously on the manuscript. He slammed it so hard back on the piano that the instrument groaned a deep, echoing thud. The rehearsal pianist, a pint-sized man named Finkelstein, cleared his throat and looked sideways at the actor, Mark Bell, who was born Marco Rubellino and slipped into his accent when angry.
