“You lied to me, Lenora. You lied to my mother. And you’ve been lying to the world for seventy years,” said Cassandra.
Lenora had successfully beaten down these dreary accusations more times than she cared to remember. She’d had a perfect game plan, a perfect playbook, and a perfect record. But now the game had changed. Cassandra’s threat represented more than just another armchair sleuth or a gossip columnist trying to beat a deadline. She possessed intelligence and determination. Most dangerous of all, she had the scorched-earth mentality of a daughter out for vengeance. Lenora reached into a nearby utility box and turned on the main circuit breaker. This powered up the entire exhibit, including lighting in the viewing area. Lenora looked at Cassandra and said, “Yes, dear, I do lie—that’s what happens when you associate with lawyers—do you care to tell me which lie you might be referring to?”
“Don’t you dare try to get clever!” shouted Cassandra, as she charged into the viewing area. The ladies now stood just feet apart, separated by the low partition that divided the viewing area from the set. Cassandra said, “Shut your mouth, and listen! Listen to the words of a coward and a traitor!” She read from some papers that she clutched in her hand. “‘Subject requests immunity from prosecution. Subject requests anonymous cooperation. Subject requests limited ID verification and personal disclosure limited to parts 1A, 1C, 1D. In exchange for the above, subject agrees to anonymous surrender of document containing evidence of communist subversion within Hollywood community.”’
The speech ended and gave way to a menacing glare. Lenora said, “All right. What do you want me to say?”
“These aren’t the words of a desperate suspect who’s been backed against the wall. I could almost forgive you for that,” said Cassandra. She held up the paper and picked out a few of the words, “‘…anonymous cooperation…anonymous surrender…limited ID verification…’ Those are the words of a negotiator who has something to sell. You coldly negotiated the sacrifice of another human being. You stabbed my mother in the back, and you had it planned out right down to the untraceable name you used!”
Lenora carefully eyed Cassandra. Everything rested on Lenora’s next move, but the timing had to be perfect. She silently waited a moment longer. Cassandra spoke.
“You get one chance to tell the truth, Lenora, and you don’t even deserve that. Tell me why you did it.”
“I wanted to work, so I chose the side that would let me do it,” said Lenora.
“And did you know that you were next in line for the part in Monty’s Revenge?”
“That wasn’t the reason—”
“Did you know?”
“Yes, I knew.”
“I’m calling a press conference,” said Cassandra. “And after the story I tell, you will be dissected right down to your rotten core. You are going to die in disgrace, Lenora. This pathetic shrine is going to crumble, and you will be remembered as the ruthless coward that you truly are.” Cassandra turned and left.
Lenora removed the lanyard from around her neck. It held her museum ID card. She reached over the partition and dropped the card into the illuminated circle on the floor. The set lighting instantly popped on. It buzzed vibrantly. A young woman dressed in a chorus-girl costume appeared from the wings. She had long legs, rosy cheeks, and a cute blonde ponytail. A bright spotlight followed along as she walked to the center of the exhibit. It was Lenora’s most recent android creation, a creation that Cassandra knew very well. Lenora said, “Cassandra, before you go, I think you might like to see this.”
Cassandra turned around. Lenora watched carefully. Cassandra gasped. Her stony face melted into a mess of forlorn sentimentality. She slowly walked back to the edge of the viewing area and braced herself against the partition. She said, “Why did you do this, Lenora? Why did you do it?”
Lenora said, “Listen to me, Cassandra. I don’t want to fight anymore. I want to surrender, but I knew you would never listen to me. I knew I had to prove my contrition. And this is how I’m going to do it.”
Cassandra jabbed at the flowing tears and said, “I don’t believe you.”
“This exhibit is dedicated to your mother. Will you let me tell you about it?”
“Can she talk?” asked Cassandra.
“She will when we’re finished…plus a whole lot more than that.”
Cassandra said nothing. She stared at her mother and shook with emotion.
Lenora continued, “It’s from Zombies on Broadway, in the diner, where your mother steals the carnation from the lapel of the mean aristocrat. It was her best movie. Manny Farber said your mother ‘singlehandedly turned matinee fodder into a must-see event,’ and Hedda Hopper listed her as one of the year’s top newcomers.”
Cassandra fought for composure. After a moment she managed to blurt, “This doesn’t change anything.”
“I haven’t told you the best part,” said Lenora. “We’ve also recreated the entire basement scene in Zander McCreery’s theater, including the dance.”
The tears now ran more than ever, undeterred by any degree of dabbing or wiping.
“I…I don’t believe it…Not from you…I don’t believe you…” blubbered Cass.
Now the time had come to make the move. Lenora spoke in a quiet, defeated voice. She said, “When you first started closing in, I only saw the scandal and the death of my museum. Of course I searched for one last lie that might save it, like I had always done, but it didn’t work. You loved your mother too much, and that gave you a determination that I couldn’t beat. That’s when I gave up, but it’s also when I realized that the museum didn’t need to be saved at all. It had the strength within itself to rise up from the rubble of my guilt and be something beautiful. I just had to let it go. I had to hand it to your mother and let her take it to a place that I can’t go. That’s when I started working on Wendy Rainy and Zombies on Broadway.”
At that moment a door in Cassandra’s heart opened just a crack. Lenora saw it in her eyes. Lenora continued, this time with a pinch more passion: “I might have to be banished, but that doesn’t mean the museum can’t go on. Instead of only one actor, it can be a tribute to all actors. These days our dirty laundry is hawked on a million different websites, but who is telling the story that really matters? Who is showing the world the vital role that actors play in our world? That’s what this museum can do! And your mother is the perfect one to lead the charge! She is the very face of the hardworking actor, and nobody deserves to be showcased more than she does. All I ask is that you give me a few days to prepare the transition, just until the grand opening, where we will scale back the exhibits, and your mother will be the only star on the playbill. I will round up top-tier investors from around the world, and Wendy Rainy will show them exactly what this museum can be. And then I will be gone. I just need your blessing to do it. I need you to let your mother shine.”
Chapter fourteen
Brandi felt her heart pounding all the way up into her neck. She wanted it too badly, and that was the best way to screw the pooch. It didn’t help that the final show filmed in front of a live audience and that she’d be in the spotlight for almost the entire time. She closed her eyes and started another round of breathing exercises. After a few minutes, Cass joined her in the left wings as they waited for their cue. They’d been dressed in perky pink-and-white waitress outfits and had caught glimpses of the set—the interior of a diner—so they had a pretty good idea that the final challenge had something to do with waiting tables. That worked perfectly for Brandi. She’d waited tables for years when breaking into the business and had gone back to it in the last year after hitting the skids. She didn’t know if the great Casmo had ever stooped that low, but it didn’t matter; no way in hell was that Hollywood powderpuff going to outhustle Brandi—unless Brandi didn’t get the jitters under control. She breathed in deeply through her nose and exhaled very slowly out of her mouth.
***
Cass wanted to say something, anything,
even if it amounted only to some kind of olive branch, but Brandi had busied herself with her preshow routine. On top of that, her body language had clearly put out a “Cass not welcome” sign.
And not only Brandi wore that sign that day; when Cass ran into Micah backstage, he brushed past her with nothing but a curt hello.
Cass knew better than to expect an easy fix to the problems she had created. She had, however, hoped to at least make a start of it—especially with Brandi, the one who Cass had injured most seriously.
But now Cass had no choice but to try to clear her head and concentrate on other things—like fixing her life. StarBash had ruined it, and as pathetic as it sounded, StarBash had the power to fix it. That’s what winning this final competition meant. Four months earlier Cass had entertained notions of destroying this little tyrant TV show. Now the tyrant had a boot on her neck, and Cass had been reduced to begging for her life. It was sad but not as sad as limping away with a second-place trophy and a reputation as the idiot actor who had flushed her life down the toilet. She had to win this thing.
The house lights dimmed, the theme song swelled, and the curtain opened…to a completely empty stage except for an old man who stood behind a very large steel sink. He wore a wet, dirty apron over a threadbare T-shirt and black work pants. Gray stubble blurred the boundaries of his face. His short gray hair looked matted and recently slept on. The inside of his right forearm had a tattoo. Cass couldn’t tell for sure, but it might’ve been an anchor or a crucifix.
A pile of dirty dishes towered above his head on one side of the sink. An island of dirty foam floated on top of the water in the sink. The man stared down at it. He reached into the water with one hand and pulled out a dishrag. He held it up to the light, looked at it, and tossed it to the floor. It landed with a soggy splat. He reached in again, fished around for a few seconds, and pulled out another rag. After some examination this rag also ended up on the floor. When the third try ended the same way, he grabbed a bucket from under the sink, turned it upside down, and stood on it. He wobbled, steadied himself, and from this elevated position reached deep into the giant sink with both arms. He fished around like before but didn’t find anything. He reached in farther, so that half his shoulders disappeared from view. His chin dipped into the foam, but with a great deal of effort, he managed to keep the rest of his head dry by craning it backward. Soon, however, he gave this up and lowered his entire head into the water as well. The audience gasped. Displaced foam and brown dishwater spilled onto the floor. The man’s upper torso sank down the hole next, and then his midsection. People squirmed. A smattering of hushed whispers rippled through the assembly. Now only his legs and feet remained. They stuck straight up into the air, moving and wriggling but not giving the impression of distress. Then, like a stricken ship succumbing to its fate, his remaining limbs disappeared into the water. The stage went black, and an anxious murmur took hold of the audience.
This StarBash spectacle had only just begun, however, as Cass soon found out. A fierce howling wind rose up out of nowhere, shook the walls, and then gave way to an even louder screeching groan that seemed to come from the roof, as if the fierce gale had just torn the top off the building. Cass peeked through an opening in the wings. Through the dim emergency lighting, she saw part of the first row of seats. The people in those seats sat rigidly straight with wide eyes. A bolt of lightning suddenly pierced the blackness, followed by a deafening clap of thunder, and those people started screaming—along with every other soul around. The lightning bolt had hit the big metal sink head-on, violently throwing it a foot off the ground. A second booming lightning bolt assaulted the sink again, and even louder screams erupted. After a third bolt hit the sink, when the audience seemed to be on the brink of hysteria, the storm ceased, and a single spotlight popped on and offered just enough light to restore some degree of calmness. The spotlight focused on the sink, which made a hissing noise and billowed big clouds of steam. The sink’s metal legs glowed red, first weakly, but the glow quickly spread and deepened into a succession of hotter shades of fire. As the glow intensified, so did the hissing and billowing. The sink glowed and hissed and billowed, loudly, dangerously, like a runaway reactor. And when the end came, when one thermal degree too many had been added to the inferno, the resulting explosion elicited the kind of frenzy that would have been the envy of any amusement park in the world. Sometimes you scream for fun. Sometimes you scream because you’re scared shitless. This sounded like the scared-shitless variety.
Fortunately, the beleaguered audience had a surprise waiting on the other side of all that terror—if they dared to open their eyes: an arm had risen up out of the sink, and it clinched a purple dishrag in its fist. The Greasy Dishrag had arrived. For the StarBash faithful, the importance of this moment roughly amounted to the arrival of the Olympic torch—or maybe even the Ten Commandments. They rose as one, clapped wildly, and the orchestra played a majestic tune. These people know how to put on a show, thought Cass, begrudgingly.
Now the time had come to see who owned the arm that had fearlessly delivered the beloved icon, a.k.a. time for Micah’s big entrance.
The audience retook their seats and watched expectantly as the arm—and the body to which it belonged—magically rose from the sink, straight up into the air. After the arm, a big fluffy chef’s hat rose next out of the abyss…because everyone knows the best way to get promoted from dishwasher to chef is to get regurgitated out the business end of a dirty sink. The mystery man under the hat faced backward, away from the audience, but the short neat haircut looked suspiciously familiar. A white chef’s neckerchief followed. And if you have a chef’s neckerchief and a chef’s hat, you better also have a chef’s coat with contrasting black Mandarin-style collar and long sleeves with contrasting black cuffs. And such broad, athletic shoulders, too. Who could be so dashing? And who could be so dry?—he didn’t have a drop of water on him. Could it be the Tinseltown tomato?
And then he moved—whoever he might be. He tucked the dishrag into his coat pocket and extended both arms straight out to the side, like a diver on a diving board.
“And here’s your StarBash host, the Tinseltown terminator himself, Micah Bailey!” boomed the announcer’s voice.
The mystery man, arms still extended, flexed his legs, sprang into the air, and performed a perfect backflip that landed center stage in front of the sink. The instant he landed, the set exploded into a pyrotechnic volcano that showered the entire stage with fire and sparks and smoke. The awestruck audience jumped to their feet again and let loose with a torrent of screams, whistles, and applause. And when the conflagration onstage ended with an extra burst of fire, and after the smoke had cleared, they discovered that the dreary, empty stage had been miraculously transformed into a vibrant, glistening 1970s-style diner that included bright-yellow Formica countertops, a row of gaudy orange booths, and a shiny red-and-white checkerboard floor.
And the terminator himself, dressed in his chef’s outfit, stood in the middle of it, facing the audience, beaming like a triumphant magician. And who could blame him, thought Cass. It looked really fun.
Micah soaked up the applause for a few seconds and then threw up his arms and said, “Wow!”
The audience yelled, “Wow!”
“I said wow!” repeated Micah.
“I said wow!” exclaimed the audience.
During this exchange a gold towel rack resting on a black-and-white marble pedestal descended from above and gently landed next to where Micah stood. Micah removed the purple towel from his pocket and reverently draped it over the rack. He then turned to the audience and said, “Hello, America! Welcome to StarBash, and welcome to our 2020 grand finale! Tonight this little dishrag is going to change someone’s life forever! But before we get to that, let’s take a look at the incredible journey of our two fearless semifinalists.” The dishrag ascended back into the heavens, and a prerecorded video played for the audience. It basically amounted to a greatest-hits co
llection of Cass and Brandi’s many catfights.
Cass knew that the clip lasted a few minutes, so she had time to try again. She touched Brandi on the arm and said, “We may never see each other again, Brandi, so I just want to say that you were right; it wasn’t fair what I did, and I’m sorry, and I hope someday I can make it up to you…if you will let me…” She extended her hand.
“Good try, Cass. Those kind of mind games don’t work with me,” said Brandi.
And right at that moment, as if to highlight their estrangement, the film clip showed the scene where Brandi blew the torn-up paper into Cass’s face. That pretty much says it all, thought Cass. The anger and resentment had too tight of a grip. At this point Cass didn’t know what else could be done.
The segment ended, and Micah said, “Put your hands together and welcome your StarBash grand finale contestants, Cassandra Moreaux and Brandi Bonacore!”
Cass turned on a big smile and waved to the crowd as she and Brandi found their spots on a little strip of stage in front of the set. Micah stood next to them, and they all faced the audience. A row of booths, followed by a counter with barstools, lined the stage behind them. Behind the counter aisle stood a wall with a kitchen pass-through that included heat lamps, an order wheel, and a stainless-steel counter. Ashtrays, napkin holders, ketchup bottles, chrome menu holders, salt and pepper shakers, and little table tents with pictures of apple pie occupied their appropriate places throughout the diner.
Death of a Movie Star Page 12