by Alton Gansky
“So you think we should be patient.” Harold rubbed his chin.
“No, I think if she wants to act like a high schooler, I should approach her as such.”
Harold began, “What do you mean—”
I banged on the door with my fist hard enough to make the locked doorknob jingle. “You listen to me, young lady,” I shouted. “I’m coming in there. I have the key. Now you can open this door yourself and allow me in, or I’ll open it myself and everyone out here will come in with me. What’s it going to be?”
I’ve never had children, but I have been a child and a rebellious teen. I used the same tone on Catherine that my mother used on me. The imitation was spot-on. Mom would be proud.
I heard a sniffing sound near the door. I waited. I had played my trump card, now there was nothing to do but wait for Catherine. If she didn’t respond, then I’d have to use the key, but that had the feel of invasion.
Another sniff. My gaze drifted to the doorknob. It moved, then stopped. Come on, come on, Catherine. The knob turned some more, the door opened an inch, but that was all. Catherine had unlocked it, unlatched it, then stepped away. It was as much of a concession as I was going to get.
Pushing the door open, I crossed the threshold. Three sets of feet shuffled behind me, moving closer. I stopped and turned. “Thank you for your help, gentlemen.” I took another step back and closed the door in their faces.
I locked it.
Chapter 13
Her eyes were red, her stage makeup marred by running tears. She stood across the room, near a long counter with a series of mirrors above. Lights lined the perimeter of the mirrors. The dressing room was wide but narrow. Costumes hung on metal racks along the wall with the entry door. Folding chairs were strewn about as were stylish duffel bags with brand names on them, no doubt the personal items needed by actors. The floor was bare concrete. Posters and photos of previous plays covered the walls. Man of La Mancha, 42nd Street, Dial M for Murder, and a dozen more.
I wondered what words would be useful; what phrases would kick-start a meaningful conversation. Speech making is second nature to me. On more occasions than I can count, I have been called to give an impromptu discourse to one group or another. The words flow easily. For some reason, I was tongue-tied.
Catherine looked as frail as an ice sculpture. Her face was pale, but much of that was due to the heavy stage makeup she wore. In her hands was a tissue which she turned over and over. On the counter behind her were several tissues that had endured the same torture.
We stood like cowboys facing off in a quick-draw competition, neither willing to speak first. My family has a history of obstinacy. This could last for a while.
I heard something behind me and I glanced at the door. I raised a finger, turned, unlocked the door, and snapped it open.
“Go away,” I said. I smiled, then closed and locked the door again. I heard muffled footsteps moving away. I shook my head. “Men! They have to be told everything and then be made to think it was their idea.”
Catherine lowered her head but I heard a soft chuckle.
Silence rose again but this time I wouldn’t tolerate it. I crossed the room, set my purse on the counter, and took Catherine in my arms. It was the most eloquent thing I could think of to say. She stood stiff as a board but then softened as the facade crumbled. She didn’t cry, and I wasn’t surprised. My guess was that she was cried out. For now, the reservoir of tears was dry and that was fine with me. I hate it when other women cry in my presence. Something about it affects my vision, and things get blurry.
A moment or two later, maybe it was a minute, I couldn’t tell, we parted. I pulled up one of the folding seats and lowered myself into it. Catherine did the same.
“Okay, kid, dish it,” I said.
She dabbed at her eyes. “I got my new script today.”
She looked to the makeup bench. I followed her gaze and saw a thick stack of canary yellow paper, three-hole punched but held together by two brass fasteners.
“Did they write you out or something?” I couldn’t imagine anything in a script that would cause such a reaction. Maybe they had reduced her part or—“Wait, they’re not asking you to do something . . . inappropriate, are they?”
“No, no. It’s worse than that.”
What could be worse than that? “I don’t understand.”
She pulled the script close, touching it like it was covered in green slime. She paged through the papers, then handed it to me. “It’s the end of act one; it’s the plot point.”
I didn’t know what a plot point was but I looked at the page. It read:
INT. THE FRONT ROOM OF LACY’S HOME—AFTERNOON
The room is sparsely furnished. Curtains hide a window wall. Lacy starts up the stairs. Her woman friend MADDY remains on the first floor.
LACY
Six bedrooms, an office, a rec room, a media room, and a den, plus the usual kitchen, breakfast nook, dining room, and five bathrooms.
MADDY
And you plan on living here alone?
LACY
I hope not.
MADDY
(Smiling)
Oh? You have a husband-to-be waiting in the wings?
LACY
Lacy picks up the remote and points it at the wood blinds over the windows. She pushes the button and the blinds open. Light streams in.
No, Maddy, I don’t. Not that I haven’t been asked. In fact, I get about twenty proposals a week from love-struck fans.
MADDY
If not a husband . . .
LACY
I’m hoping to convince Mom and Dad to move back to Santa Rita. It’s one reason I built my home here. They’re not getting any younger and I would love to have them around.
MADDY
You’re a good daughter. Not many people your age would want to have their parents around. It would cramp their style.
LACY
I don’t have a style. I’m just a very fortunate actor. No one knows how long fame will last. This time next year, I may be a used-to-be.
MADDY
Somehow I doubt that.
LACY
(Looking around, frowns)
I wonder where Ed is. We’ve made enough noise to wake the dead.
MADDY
Bathroom? Or the media room?
LACY
There’s nothing in the media room.
Lacy sets the remote down.
I’m going to take a quick look around. I’ll be right back and we can continue the tour, then I’ll buy your dinner.
MADDY
And I’ll let you.
Maddy picks up the remote and studies it. After a moment she opens the drapes. The wall of curtain pulls back to reveal tall and wide windows overlooking the ocean and a wide and deep backyard.
LACY
(Screams)
MADDY
What? What? What is it?
LACY
(Points out window with shaking hand.)
Maddy races up the stairs and looks out the window. She gasps.
EXT. LACY’S BACKYARD POOL
A body in chauffeur’s uniform floats facedown in the pool. Clouds of blood billow in the water.
MADDY
(Softly)
Ed?
LACY
Yes.
MADDY
Call 9–1–1.
Maddy races down the stairs toward the window wall and door. Lacy is frozen in place.
MADDY
Call 9–1–1 now!
Maddy runs outside, kicks off her shoes, and plunges into the pool. She swims to the dead man, grabs him, and tows him to the shallow end of the pool.
The last half of the page was blank.
I felt sick. Thoughts raced through my head at such speeds they collided, leaving me unable to pull a cohesive notion together. I said nothing, knowing that if I tried I would do little more than babble like a two-year-old.
I was holding an account of what had happened at Catherin
e’s home yesterday. It was as if someone else had been in the room.
“How could anyone know this?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Catherine said. “Someone was watching us.”
That sent a cascade of ice water down my spine. “It has my name but not yours. It says Lacy, not Catherine.”
“Lacy is the part I play. It’s my character in the movie.”
She was tearing up again, and she would get no criticism from me. There was a grapefruit-sized knot in my belly. No wonder Catherine had been so upset.
I closed the script and looked at the title page. Like the rest of the pages it was canary yellow. The title page read:
A LONG WAY FROM NOWHERE
Original Screenplay by
Anita Gorman
The words were centered on the page. In the lower right-hand corner was a list of dates tucked next to the right margin:
August 30, 2006
REV. 9/15/06 (BLUE)
REV. 9/30/06 (PINK)
REV. 10/1/06 (YELLOW)
“Every revision gets a different color paper?” I was doing what I always did when stressed—I analyzed.
“Yes. Scripts get changed throughout the whole movie-making process. After a while there are dozens of scripts floating around. By changing the color the actors know which is the latest version. There’s nothing worse than showing up having studied the pink script only to find out everyone is reading off the yellow.”
“Who is Anita Gorman?”
“She’s hot property. Her last two scripts did super at the box office. Both were Academy Award nominees. She’s the best.”
“Do you know her well?”
“No. I’ve met her at script meetings. She seems pretty together and has been nice to me.”
“Would she write something like this? I mean, these pages weren’t in the original, right?”
“Of course not.”
I flipped through the pages. The offending ones were formatted like the rest. “Whoever did this knows something about scripts. I wouldn’t know how to format a screenplay.”
“Producers and directors are very fussy about that. Each page is supposed to represent about one minute of screen time.”
I looked at the last page. “One hundred and twenty pages. Two hours?”
“About. Things change in the process but that will be close. Comedies are about ninety minutes and dramas around two hours.”
“Is anything else different in the script?”
“I don’t know. That was as far as I got.”
“I can understand that. Who brought the script to you?”
“Andy Buchanan.” She raised the tissue to her face and blew her nose. “He’s the director’s son. He’s sort of an assistant-assistant director. He’s just out of film school.”
“Did he come with the new limo driver?”
“The new driver hasn’t shown up yet.” She sniffed again.
I started to ask another question when there was a loud knock on the door. I jumped from my chair, my heart in overdrive.
“Catherine, baby. It’s me, Franco. Open up.”
Great. Frankie the Ego.
He knocked again.
Catherine looked at me with fearful eyes. “I’m not ready to be seen by others yet.”
“I’ll take care of it.” I walked to the door, unlocked it, and opened it just a foot. There was Frankie Z., the man who had sat in my home and insulted me and my city without batting an eye. I spoke before he could. “Catherine is fine. We’ll be out soon.”
“I want to see her.”
“Not now.”
“Listen, lady, I said I want to see her.”
“And I told you no—man.”
He started to push his way in, but I had placed my foot on the door in a reverse door-to-door salesman trick. He reached through the opening.
“Before you touch me, pal,” I said with concrete resolve, “I need to remind you that the entire Santa Rita police department works for me.” It was hyperbole but true in its essence.
He withdrew his arm.
“You may wait with the others. Have some dinner.”
“When will you be out?” I saw his jaw tighten.
“When we’re good and ready, Frankie.” I closed the door and quickly turned the lock.
I walked back to Catherine.
“I should have let him in,” she said.
“Nonsense. The guy needs to learn a few manners.”
“He is a little brusque, but he’s been good to me.”
I placed my hands on her shoulders and turned her in her chair until she was facing the mirror. “I’m glad to hear that, but he irritates me, and when I’m irritated I like to share it with others.” She smiled. “Why don’t you clean that stuff off your face? It looks like you put it on with a trowel.”
“Stage makeup never looks right up close, but it keeps the theater lights from washing out the actor’s expression.”
“Well, you start scrubbing, and I’m going to make a call.”
“To whom?”
“Detective Judson West. He needs to know about this script. I’ll admit that it has me a little on edge, and I’d feel better if West were involved. Besides, it’s tied to a murder he’s investigating. We have to tell him.”
“I understand.” She began to wipe off her makeup. “I’m sorry you’ve gotten involved. Maybe I shouldn’t have come back.”
“This is your home, and no one is going to run you off.” I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed. “Besides, you promised to raise millions of dollars in my last fund-raiser.”
“I said I’d show up if it would help. I said nothing about dollar amounts.” She grinned.
“No, I distinctly remember hearing the phrase ‘millions of dollars.’ Maybe it was ‘billions of dollars.’” She laughed.
A few seconds later, I had West on the phone. I gave him a thirty-second summary.
He was not happy.
Chapter 14
We walked into the dining room just as the meal was being served. The actors and behind-the-scenes people were seated along the long table. Wine glasses, tumblers of water, bottles of beer, and sodas formed a forest of glassware. Before each of them was a plate of London broil—I had been wrong about the prime rib—garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus spears with hollandaise sauce. Salad bowls were being gathered by the servers to make more room. A basket of rolls was set before each group of four.
To Catherine’s credit, she walked in with her eyes dry and her head held high. Everyone turned our way as we entered, but no one said anything or fired any questions. It’s a rare thing to find a group of people who know when an event is none of their business. Of course, there is always an exception. Franco sprang from his seat.
“Catherine, baby, are you all right?”
“Did everyone get to meet Franco Zambonelli?” Catherine said, diverting Frankie Z. “Take a good look at these guys, Franco. Some may be your clients soon. They’re all wonderful actors.”
The group gave a happy rumble.
“Let’s sit down,” she added and took Franco by the arm. Soon we were all seated. Harold eyed Catherine and me. I gave him a slight nod. It was reassurance enough. He dove back into his meal.
I hadn’t planned on staying for dinner, but West didn’t want us to leave. Nor did he want us to talk to anyone about the script. He officially gagged us. Before coming out, I made a side trip to the kitchen, a much larger affair than I imagined, and asked one of the cooks for a large Ziploc baggie. He had one and was kind enough not to ask why. I slipped the script into the bag and carried it with me to the dining room, being careful to set it on my lap. I wanted to know where it was at all times.
I caught Franco studying me, then Catherine. To him, I was an interloper. To me, he was a pain. His expression said he knew he was out of the loop but that he was in the wrong place to talk about it. Barring the door to him may have cost me a few points on his admiration meter, but somehow I didn’t care.
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Fifteen minutes later, Judson West walked in. I had just finished my salad and Catherine had finished pushing hers around with her fork. I didn’t count, but I don’t think she ate more than three or four bites.
“Good evening, Madam Mayor,” West said as he stepped to my side. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him towering like a redwood tree. “I wonder if I could bother you and Ms. Anderson.”
I excused myself from the table. Catherine did the same. Holding the script in the plastic bag, I rose. I noticed Harold studying West, but he said nothing. Franco, however, blurted, “Who are you?”
“I work with the mayor,” West said. He withdrew my chair for me.
“What’s that got to do with Catherine?”
“She has some information for me,” West said and offered nothing more.
Franco was becoming agitated. “If it concerns Catherine, it concerns me.”
“Sit down, Franco,” Catherine said sweetly. “I just want to talk to Mr. West for a moment.”
That didn’t work. Franco rose. “I’m not sure I like your attitude, West.”
I glanced along the table. No one was eating. No one was moving. West pulled back his suit coat, revealing a shiny bronze badge. I also noticed that he pulled the coat back far enough to reveal his gun. Franco blanched and oozed down into his chair. West has a way of smiling that is unsettling, a smile that has its origins someplace other than the funny bone.
“Ladies,” West said and motioned for us to follow him from the land of tables to the land of booths, the more expensive seats. I slid in the U-shaped booth. Catherine took the place to my left and West to my right.
“Is that it?” He nodded at the plastic-sheathed screenplay.
“Yes.” I pushed it across the table toward him.
“Whose idea was the plastic bag?”
“Maddy’s,” Catherine said. “I wasn’t at my best.”
“Who’s handled it?”
“I have,” Catherine answered, “and Maddy too. Oh, and the guy who delivered it.”
“Tell me about him.” West studied the script, and I could see that he was dying to open it. He looked over at the feasting actors. They had been watching us, but as soon as he directed his gaze their way, they decided their meals were more interesting. Only Franco maintained his stare.