Anatomy of a Crossword

by Nero Blanc

  “Number?”

  “Mrs. Briephs’s phone number?”

  “Oh, right …” Again Belle’s doubts began to resurface, “I don’t know; maybe this isn’t such a good idea …”

  “Belle, honey, this is like a done deal. Don’t go back on me now. You can’t just say you’ll do something and then back out of it. Besides, this is quick stuff, these scenes. Sara will be on the same plane heading home with you and your hubby in one short week. One tiny, little week! Think of all the wonderful stories you’ll have … all the laughs you’ll share … When I consider how my own mother would have jumped at the chance …” For once, Lee was telling the truth. If his mom had been alive, she would have clobbered him if he hadn’t handed her the part. “Why, the notion of being of service to a lovely, older person just makes me choke up, that’s all. Think of the opportunity! Think of the gift you’ll be giving your dearest friend!” He took a deep breath. “What’s that number?”

  Belle also drew in a long and hesitant breath, then slowly released it. “It’s five, zero, eight, five, five, five, seven, nine, zero, eight.”

  Rennegor stood. “You’re a doll. You won’t regret this, not for a minute, believe me.”

  “Aren’t you going to write the number down?”

  He tapped his index finger to his temple. “Mind like a steel trap.”

  As Lee Rennegor turned to leave, Belle said, “Oh, and another thing, Rosco’s going to need a car.”

  “You got it.”

  “A Mustang.”

  “You got it.”

  “Red.”

  “You got it.”

  “Convertible.”

  “You got it.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Max Chugorro should have been a happy camper. Three of his scripts were now in development: Border Deals, White Like Snow, and Tijuana Traffic. He was a good screenwriter, having graduated from the UCLA film school with an award-winning short—all of which came just after a brief stint in the army and some unpleasant experiences during the first Gulf War. Max had a keen eye for life in the barrio and an ear for Hispanic machismo dialog, and was handy with a variety of firearms. He knew how to weave an action tale better than half the yo-yos who currently boasted Hollywood production deals.

  But that single word, development, was his problem. It was a long, long way from a production deal, which could be even further away from casting and lensing. Development contracts often didn’t put a lot of money into the pockets of new-kid-on-the-block screenwriters. And although the future should have looked bright for Max Chugorro, he was smart enough to realize that the time was not yet right for him to dispense with his small landscaping business.

  So Max toiled away in the evenings honing scripts, while during the day, he worked over the lawns, gardens, and sprinkler systems of those people in the hills who couldn’t quite afford a private gardener. His black-and-gold pickup truck had become a near fixture on Doheny, Hillcrest, and Beverly Drive. He wasn’t rolling in dough, but the fairly steady work kept him afloat, and many homeowners thought it quaint to have their lawns redone by Max Chugorro, THE MARQUIS DE SOD, as his business card read.

  But this particular sunny Saturday morning didn’t find Max doing his usual—trudging behind some twenty-two-year-old trophy wife while she decided precisely where she wanted him to place the seventy-five pounds of potted agapanthus he’d been lugging around in his hands. No, this Saturday found him at the Garden Depot on Roscoe Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley doing a little pro bono work for his elderly aunt, none other than Harriet Tammalong. Harriet had wanted to replace her concrete patio with a brick one for as long as Max could remember, but his schedule had never been able to accommodate her wishes—until today, which placed the two of them on Roscoe Boulevard in the midst of the “hardscaping” section of the emporium as Harriet rattled off an array of questions concerning cinder blocks, mortar, slate, blue stone, statuary, and terra-cotta planters.

  “… I want it to look like it’s always been there, Maxie,” she said for the tenth time. “None of these shiny red ones.” She pointed to a pallet of bricks. “Oh, and not those brown ones, either. They’re disgusting. They remind me of those tacky office buildings on Ventura Boulevard. Don’t they have any old bricks here?”

  “We can get used ones at another supply center, but they’re expensive. Plus, if they’re too soft, there’s no telling how long they’ll hold up.”

  “There’s no telling how long I’m going to hold up, Maxie. They don’t need to last into the next century.”

  “Right, but the other problem is, they’re uneven. They make attractive walls, but they’re hard to walk on. I think we should be considering tumbled bricks. They’re uniform in size and easier to work with.”

  Max took a step toward the pallet of tumbled bricks, but Harriet stopped him by grabbing the back of his tank top. “How’s the movie business treating you, Maxie?”

  “Er … fine, I guess. I’ve got a few things in development at Fox and another at Universal.”

  “Hah, I know what development means. How’s your money holding out?”

  “I’m okay. There’s still a lot of sick lawns in Beverly Hills.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. I know how cheap those muckety-mucks are. How many of them owe you money?”

  “Ah … Not many?” He smiled at her.

  Aunt Harriet was nobody’s dummy; she’d been around, and she guessed that her dear nephew Maxie wasn’t forceful when it came to demanding payments. “I want to pay you for your work, and I mean that. I have plenty of cash, Maxie … Not from your shiftless Uncle Harvey, though. Sheesh, he was the worst of the lot.”

  Max laughed. “I wouldn’t hear of you paying me. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get around to it, that’s all.” He tugged his shirt from her hand and walked over to the tumbled bricks. Harriet followed.

  “See,” he said, “they take brand new bricks, slop a little paint on them, place them in a huge drum, and roll them around for a while. That way, they become distressed and have that used look.”

  “Humph,” Harriet said with a frown. “Speaking of distressed and used looks, whatever happened to that girlfriend of yours? What was her name? Daisy? Dotty? Dopey? Deb?”

  Max stiffened noticeably as he interrupted. “I really don’t want to talk about her. It’s ancient history. I haven’t seen her since she—”

  But Harriet rolled on, not waiting for him to finish his sentence. “I met the most lovely young woman the other night at the Down & Across taping. I even introduced her to Gerry Orso as my niece.” She looked up at the bright sky, now with a dreamy expression. “Too bad she’s married, she’d be perfect for you. She was very pretty. Someone I would like to get to know a lot better.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Harriet.”

  “But then you know … Come to think of it, I was married to number three when I met your Uncle Harvey, and that didn’t slow me down. Although Harv was huge a mistake in the long run, he’s the only one of the five who wasn’t worth a plugged nickel. Not even life insurance. I learned my lesson there—get that life insurance policy early.”

  Max removed two of the tumbled bricks from the pallet. “See, every one one looks entirely different, but they’re all the same size, so they give you a very smooth, yet aged look.”

  “‘Smooth but aged,’ hmmm … That was Harvey, all right … You need a girlfriend, Maxie. Even if it’s back to that tramp you used to be so stuck on.”

  “Can we just drop her, Harriet? Please?”

  “The tramp? Sure, like she dropped you? I’ll never forgive her for that … Of course if she came back, that would be—”

  “That’s not going to happen. She’s with some guy in Malibu, living the high life. Now, can we just kill it?”

  “Fine. Fine. But, that’s Hollywood for you. These trampy actresses will always run off with the guy who’s got the in with the studios, just like she did. Wait till you get your break, the ladies will be knocking your door down
, too.”

  Max shook his head. “What about the tumbled bricks?”

  “Well …” Harriet rolled the brick in her hands, inspecting all six sides. “They’re very attractive.” She picked up a second brick. “And no two seem the same … I like that, the lack of uniformity. And … And … I have an idea.”

  “Yes …?”

  “I have an idea how we’re going to get you a writing job … And maybe a girlfriend at the same time.”

  “Let me worry about all that, okay, Aunt Harriet? Now, what about the bricks?”

  She gave him a big smile. “Sure, Maxie, wrap ’em up”

  “I need to measure your patio first to determine how many I’ll need. I’ll take you home, and we can do it now, if you like.”

  “This all is very exciting.”

  As Max and Harriet exited the Garden Depot and crossed the parking lot toward his waiting pickup truck, a gray Toyota sedan zipped by them, honked twice and darted into a nearby parking space. The driver’s door swung open, and a woman with bowl-cut hair stepped out, immediately locked the car, and began walking directly toward Harriet and Max.

  “Goodness,” Harriet said, “it’s Wanda Jorcrof. Looks like we’re not heading home quite yet. I need to talk to her.”

  CHAPTER 16

  By seven-thirty Sunday evening, the silver crescent of the new moon had yet to appear on the eastern horizon. Its absence made Los Angeles glow, its vast parade of street lights, car lights, house lights, office complexes, and neon-bright strip malls in vivid contrast to the inky sky. Mile upon mile of pinpoint-sized sparks flashed on and off over the city and its spreading suburbs. And as their Continental Airlines Boeing 767 banked over Malibu on its final approach for landing at LAX, Sara and Rosco were treated to this spectacular, almost phosphorescent view. The cabin overheads had been dimmed; the night was a deep charcoal hue; and the ocean, vast and primeval, darker still. “Oh!” Sara murmured. “Perhaps, this is what paradise looks like. Paradise seen from above, that is.”

  “What would be above paradise?” Rosco asked with a smile.

  “You’ve got a good point,” was Sara’s wry reply before a passing flight attendant reminded her that her seat belt wasn’t fastened.

  “Very bossy, these stewardesses are nowadays,” Sara confided as the young woman walked toward the aircraft’s aft section. The older lady deemed the term “flight attendant” too modern and vague, preferring the more nautical “steward” as if she were not aloft but aboard a transatlantic liner. Rosco held his tongue, opting not to mention that “bossy” might best describe Sara Crane Briephs—a trait that seemed to run in her family. Her brother, the senator, enjoyed the same reputation on Capitol Hill. The thought brought Rosco’s mind full circle.

  “Is Senator Crane still planning on being in Sacramento this week?”

  “Oh, Hal and his ‘energy crisis’ investigations. Yes, indeed, he will be here. One would think one could travel across this grand country of ours and be able to escape the watchful eye of one’s ‘elder brother.’ It makes me feel like I’m positively back in grade school.”

  Rosco laughed. “Los Angeles is a long way from Sacramento, Sara. Your visiting at the same time is purely coincidental. And if memory serves me, I believe the senator did plan his trip right after the recall count.”

  “Humph … So you say. Well, on with the show,” Sara added. “My new career! Aging thespian! And a stranger in paradise!”

  At a rented beach house directly below the path of the 767, the picture was not one remotely resembling paradise or even earthly contentment or peace. The rooms in Chick Darlessen’s home were unlit, the silence inhospitable and grim. Having watched the Lakers’s game with a number of sitcom writers up in the highlands of Pacific Palisades, Chick had consumed more than one too many Bloody Marys. Two or three too many, in fact. Then, absolutely blotto, he’d managed to climb behind the wheel of his new Porsche and had driven woozily home at 6 P.M.

  Debra hadn’t been on hand to great him, and he couldn’t remember whether she had “spinning class” or yoga or step-aerobics—or whether she might have mentioned something about visiting friends. Alone, he’d breathed a sigh of relief at finding himself in a solitary state, then walked through the pitch-black sitting/dining area and entered his private office, where he’d immediately proceeded to pass out on the couch without bothering to flick on so much as his desk lamp. Now, at 7:30, the space was disorienting in its utter darkness, so the voice that roused him from his sodden sleep seemed to come from nowhere, almost like a ghost or a bad dream.

  “We need to talk, Chickie.”

  “Who …? Wha’ the …?” Darlessen thudded from the couch to the floor, and struggled to get his still-drunken bearings. Once he’d discovered where he was—home, in fact—he crouched there panting as a wave of nausea came and went.

  “We need to talk—now,” the voice repeated.

  “Later …”

  The unwanted visitor moved to the desk, depressing the button on the table lamp until a stream of yellow light spread across the desktop where the .38 revolver remained, having never been relocated to the kitchen as promised. Chick gazed at it briefly, then returned his concentration, such as it was, to the interloper’s shoes. Queasy as he felt, it was remarkable how much energy he could expend in hating those particular shoes.

  “What are ya tryin’ to do? Give me a damn heart attack? Jumpin’ in here … yellin’.” Chick felt bile rising in his throat, as well as the unpleasant aftertaste of tomato juice, horseradish, Tabasco, and vodka.

  “I’m not yelling. Far from it. There’s no point in having the neighbors listening in. Besides, you’re too drunk to be startled.”

  Darlessen grabbed at his throbbing head with both hands, then rubbed at his eye sockets with the tips of his fingers. “Ha, ha … guess you’re on the money about tha’—”

  “We need to talk—”

  Chick groaned. “Tomorrow … We can talk tomorrow. Monday. Can’t you see I’m wasted?” He clambered back onto the couch, flopped face down and placed a pillow over his head.

  But an angry hand grabbed the pillow, and flung it across the room. “Sit up, and look at me!”

  “Uh-oh, somebody’s in a foul mood … Again.” The words were slurred; halfway along Darlessen started to laugh. It was a wheezy, helpless sound. “I suggest you—”

  “We need to iron out a few details in this relationship of ours—”

  Chick laughed louder. “What ‘relationship’? Our so-called relationship’s over … As of now.” He rolled around and tried to sit up, but he kept sagging sideways. He wiped a drop of drool from his mouth with his shirttail, allowing his pale belly to hang out over the elastic waistband of his sweat pants.

  “You look disgusting, Chick.”

  From his half-prone position, Darlessen belched loudly. “There, how’s tha’? Give you somethin’ extra to be disgusted about.” A case of the hiccups was beginning to set in. “This may come as a … hic … big surprise to you, but I could not care less about you … and our relationship … I just want you the … hic … hell out of my space—”

  “Sit up straight.”

  “How’d you get in here, anyway? I keep this room … hic … locked for a reason, you know …” Chick tried to think back. Hadn’t he locked the door behind him when he returned? The turning of the key had become an almost Pavlovian response after he entered his workspace—his only haven of quiet and solitude in the whole damn house.

  In response, his visitor sat on the edge of the desk, the nose of the .38 almost brushing a muscled thigh. “Your sanctuary, is that it? Your private retreat? No one’s allowed in without the master’s say-so.” The tone was increasingly acidic; a hand began toying carelessly with the gun.

  “Hey, watch that thing … hic … It goes off by accident, someone gets hurt …” Chick was finally able to sit up straight on the couch, but another wave on nausea started to move in. “… Here, give it to me …” He held out his hand, but hi
s request was ignored.

  “You haven’t been square with me, Chickie … All those promises—”

  “Wha’ promises—?”

  “I guess the concept of Chick Darlessen thinking of anyone other than Chick Darlessen is pretty damn remote, isn’t it?”

  “Wha’ promises?” Darlessen repeated.

  Again the question passed unnoticed while the pistol began casually passing from right hand to left hand and back again. The person holding it sighed in weariness and anger. “So, do I give you another chance? Or do I just fold this tent right here and now?”

  “Fold your tent … hic … That’s a great idea … And get the hell out … Which was my suggestion … hic … five minutes ago … And put down that damn … You know how dangerous—”

  But the intruder suddenly stood, leveling the gun at Chick. “Things are going my way from now on. Not yours. Not yours anymore.”

  Frightened into soberness, Chick’s face froze. “Get out” he managed to spit out, “or I’ll call the cops and have you thrown out. So, help me, I will.”

  “My way—”

  Darlessen lunged forward, while almost instantaneously, the .38 fired, sending a slug into his chest, passing through his heart and lodging in the wall behind him. As his dying body jerked reflexively backward, the remaining five bullets slammed into it while the shooter stared in horror at the growing pool of blood.

  Five minutes later, a scream rose from the house, spilling in successive waves of urgency and fear as Debra Marcollo stumbled onto the deck, Darlessen’s blood dripping from her hands. Then still wailing at the top of her lungs, she half-skidded and half-ran down the wooden steps and out to the beach where she was finally subdued by a passing off-duty lifeguard.

  The Malibu police arrived at the scene less than seven minutes after that.

  CHAPTER 17

  Driving south from Thousand Oaks at 8:15 Monday morning, Lew Groslir could scarcely restrain himself from pounding the molded burl walnut dashboard of his Bentley or vehemently honking his horn. The heady array of expletives he permitted himself were yet another case—giving him ample means with which to vent his disgust, fury, and outrage over the sheer stupidity of some no-talent, bimbo girlfriend murdering a man only marginally more creative than she. “The no-account little witch,” he spluttered and fumed. “Would I love to get my hands on her … What does she think …? That she’s gonna throw me off schedule because I didn’t listen to the Chicken man and cast her as my lead actress? Slow down a Lew Groslir production? Fat chance!” It never occurred to his egocentric personality that the screenwriter’s death might have had nothing whatsoever to do with him or the filming of Anatomy of a Crossword, although he did experience a momentary pang of concern over whether Chick had completed the final rewrites of the last three crucial scenes. Darlessen was—scratch that, had been—a world-class sluggard when it came to work and bringing things in on time.