Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd.

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  Within a few months of Babs’ leaving I got a call that my mother had died in a car accident and my dad was in no shape to be alone. I packed my belongings and moved back to Tuscaloosa, where I taught acting at the University as an adjunct, and also performed, mostly singing at clubs around town. About fourteen years ago I met Todd Kittredge, who’d been hired as a Visiting Professor in the Music Department. He saved my life. Sort of. I was heading out of some burger joint on my way to teach Theatre Appreciation when I was struck down with what I soon learned was food poisoning thanks to some very rotten mayo in Burger Blitzkrieg. Todd happened to be walking by and saw me retching, heaving and in a lot of pain as I lay on the sidewalk. He didn’t wait for an ambulance. He rushed me to the emergency room and stayed while I went through all the fun things that happen when one is stupid enough to order anything but a canned soda in a place called Burger Blitzkrieg. No description necessary or desired.

  Todd asked me to marry him two weeks later. I probably would have said yes even if he hadn’t saved me from possibly dying in front of lousy diner, but, thinking back on it, it was rather a manipulative proposal and had I not been nearly malnourished since eating was very far down on my to-do list, might well have suggested a longer courtship. But I didn’t. At age forty-one, being what I called The Oldest Living First Time Bride in America, I went sailing down the aisle and became Bootsie Kittredge.

  After his year in Tuscaloosa was up, we moved back to Manhattan. I called Babs and told her to get her butt back. She did.

  So now we were both here, both divorced and both pissed as hell at the men who’d left us in amazingly bad financial straits. Babs was at least making ends meet with a lot of commercial work and a few nice TV parts. Since I’d apparently been career sabotaged by Todd (for no good reason I could think of other than jealousy that I might actually succeed in show business where he’d failed) I had no ‘name’ recognition among casting directors and, other than having an agent, was in the position of starting from scratch. I’d been house and dog or cat sitting for actors out on tour for the last year and a half since I’d left our apartment. And if anyone’s wondering why two years of sitting instead of the ten months as a divorced person, let me simply say that living in the apartment with Todd, who was openly dating Karalynn at the time, was—oh—a bit taxing on the psyche. It takes a year after filing for a divorce in New York to hit that ‘final’ status and with absolutely no support from Todd and no job at hand, I was lucky that actors who weren’t off somewhere on tour long enough to sublet were in desperate need for someone to stay in their place and feed and water and walk pets and plants. And no, the plants did not need to be walked; I just threw that in to try to shorten an already lengthy sentence, although I obviously did not succeed in doing so.

  I turned the computer off. I wasn’t in the mood for researching how to murder your ex. I wasn’t really in the mood to do anything that didn’t involve eating foodstuffs with a carb content over three hundred grams. I wandered into the kitchen, grabbed a bag of potato chips and an undiet soda and headed back to the couch to check the TV schedule.

  The phone rang again. Babs. “I’m done. And I’m down at Maria’s Casa with three other auditionees and the stage manager and we’re dishing dirt and drinking heavy and you need to get your butt down here and your face out of the potato chip bag.”

  Chapter 4

  I spotted Babs et al immediately upon entering Maria’s Casa. Hard to miss. She and her auditioning buddies had secured a huge corner booth littered with pitchers of booze, baskets of tortilla chips, wadded-up wet napkins and half-eaten plates of nachos and fajitas. They were making no effort to keep their voices down. Babs waved at me and I began to weave my way through crowded tables filled with colorful characters. Maria’s was a great hangout for actors and it appeared that many of them had either come from auditions where they were going for the look of a character or they’d just gotten out of shows and hadn’t bothered to change which is a total no-no. Two tables caddy-corner from Babs was the Les Miserable crowd with gentlemen garbed in early Nineteenth Century long black jackets and cravats and pony-tailed hair. The table directly to Babs’ left was filled with Guys and Dolls gangsters in fedoras and wide-lapelled jackets and Hot Box bimbos with pink bows on their heads, and little fur jackets who were discussing what they planned to get their kids for Christmas. And then there was the Little Shop of Horrors by way of Some Like it Hot Marilyn fan club group, which actually only consisted of two women who must have been auditioning for Audrey— the girl—not the plant. Bleached blonde hair in the helmeted bob of the early Sixties and low-cut polka-dot sundresses that they’d wisely chose to cover with faux fur capes. I loved it and made a promise to do whatever it took to stay in this city so I could drink in drink in that which makes New York New York, i.e.—New Yorkers.

  I sank down into the chair Babs had kindly pulled away from the table for me. She shoved a clean glass at me, then grabbed a half-full pitcher of margaritas and began pouring. When she continued to pour even though the green liquid was spilling over I figured she’d been the person to bring the majority of that pitcher to half.

  “Bootshee! Yo, girl! Let me innerduce you to these fine gentleman. That’s Roger Bachmann here right next to me. He read for the mob boss and I might add, did a damn fine job of it! Um. Kameron Tinibu ‘cross the table here is goin’ for the head gang-banger in the ‘hood. And ashally Roger also read for the cop who takes everyone down in the second an’ he did a damn fine job of that too when he and Kameron were doin’ a cool scene where they agree, I mean argue.” She turned then pointed to an attractive man in his mid-forties who was heading toward the table with a load of dry napkins. “Thass Joey Carmichael. He’s stage-managing and he’s very efficient. He realizes when actors are in need of vital supplies like napkins to soak us up.”

  I nodded to all. Roger looked to be in his fifties. He was a total ringer for Cary Grant at the same age. Kameron could have been on his way to the high school prom but was more likely in his late twenties than teens. “You’re on Two Days to Sunset, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “I am. Great gig. One of the few soaps still grasping for a portion of the daytime audience. Just wish they’d let me out of the wheelchair now and then. My feet start going to sleep during long takes.”

  I shook my head. “That’s what you get for crashing your plane into a drug cartel’s private casino.”

  He grinned and clinked glasses with me in a toast. “At least I was the good guy. If I’d been one of the cartel bosses, I’d’ve gone up in the explosion and back to reading casting notices. Here’s to jobs that pay.”

  We all toasted, including Joey who’d finished distributing dry napkins to all at the table. I snuck a peek at him. Mid-to-late forties. Tech city. Grayish-brown pony tail, wire-rimmed glasses, faded and patched jeans and a shirt with a pocket protector. Babs was staring at him with more lust than I’ve exhibited for the chocolate cheesecake at our favorite dessert deli on Seventh Ave. What was more interesting was the way he was staring back. I winked at her when Joey wasn’t looking and she fluttered her lashes at me.

  “So, how did auditions go, everyone?”

  Three males pointed at Babs. “Let her tell you. She’s the one who stood out.”

  “Oh no. What did you do?”

  “Hey, I did a bee-you-tee-ful audishon. Uh. Sorry. Aw. Dish. Un. Bee-you-tifully. So did Roger and Kam. Just ask Joey.”

  He nodded. “She did. They did.”

  “So?”

  Babs flicked her fingers at Joey. “You tell her. I don’ ‘member anymore and my teeth still hurt.”

  Joey smiled. “As Babs was leaving she happened to remark that the role of Trixie, the mob boss’s mistress, should by all rights go to her best friend, Bootsie—someone who can actually sing and dance and act— and that Monica Travers was a train wreck waiting to happen and the earth would be a better place without her in it.”

  My eyes opened as wide as possible without popping ont
o the table. “And just who or whom happened to overhear this comment.”

  Roger chuckled. “Everyone. Let’s face it, our Babsy can project.”

  I snorted. “Which is great when reciting Amanda’s lines in Glass Menagerie in a five-thousand seat house that lacks microphones, but perhaps not wise when exiting an audition where the lover of the person one is trashing has the power to squash the vocal detractor with a short phone call.”

  “Have ‘nother margarita,” Babs said. “You’re sober.”

  I hadn’t even had one. I took a sip and decided to stay sober since it was obvious Babs would need a designated ‘get her home safely’ shepherd. Probably to Leo’s home with me since there was no way she could navigate the subways in her condition and her current abode was in Washington Heights.

  Joey stated, “Babs only said what everyone at that audition was thinking. And fortunately the producer who is on such intimate acquaintance with Ms. Travers was not there. I talked to Eva Martinez—she’s directing— and she totally agrees that Monica Travers is wrong, wrong, and wrong for the part. We simply need a way to get the producer to understand that by casting her he’s putting his money in jeopardy. This thing has the potential to move to Broadway but not with the energy sucking bitch in that role.”

  Babs mused, “Let’s kill her.”

  I groaned.

  She added, “Bootsie and I are starting a hitman business, only in our case it’s hitwomen.”

  Roger chuckled. “With your inventedness I’m sure you can come up with a good murder-made-to-look-like-an-accident. ” He nodded at Kameron. “Hey! Didn’t you work special effects for that amazingly awful sci-fi flick featuring the aliens who fell in love with the shape-shifting vampires? No offense.”

  Kameron laughed. “None taken. You’re right. It was awful. Yes, I did work the FX stuff and, I might add, although it’s really rude to say, was paid a much tidier sum than if I’d had the stupidity to take a role in the thing. You watch. It’s so bad it’ll become a hugely successful cult classic and I’ll miss out on all the residuals.”

  Babs beamed at him. “Perfick. You’re bound ta know devious means of dispatching folks to ‘nother levels of existenchisistenshal.”

  “Existence,” I added gently so Kameron wouldn’t have to translate Babs' very slurred syllables.

  Kameron took a swig of beer. “Well, all our stuff only worked on vampires.”

  Joey casually gazed up at the ceiling. “In that case, they should work well on Monica Travers. Although, it’d be easier to simply find a wasp to get her.”

  “As in White Anglo-Saxon Protestant—or the annoying insects who hang out on plums and peaches?” I inquired.

  “The latter. She’s literally deathly allergic.”

  Babs brightened. “We could send ‘er on up a basket of fruit up to her hotel next time she’s having an illicit relatives—I mean relations— which should be any hour upon the hour on the hour.”

  Laughter all around, including the table full of the Les Miz look-a-likes, the guys and the dolls and Audreys one and two, all of whom were eavesdropping with no shame whatsoever.

  Kam chugged down a full glass of beer. “Back to Monica and the illicit relations—and more for Bootsie’s benefit, but I heard from the casting director, who didn’t want la Travers anyway, that he plans on informing the producer that Monica is also banging the conductor for Hail, Presidents! and that she’s been known to spend more than a few hours at the local hotels with the president of that new cable network intent on gobbling up TNT, USA and the Sy-Fy channel.”

  “Yow.” I smirked. “And meow too.”

  Babs sighed. “I guess we are being pretty caddy, sorry, catty, but honestly that woman infuriates me. Hard ‘nuff to find jobs these days without someone screwing every top mogul in sight to push the rest of us into the street.” Pause. “My tooth hurts.”

  Joey patted her hand. “Sorry about the tooth. As for Ms. Travers—well, at least she’s not getting roles that should go to you.” He glanced at me. “She is, however, doing you out of Trixie. I saw you in that revival of City of Angels ten years ago and you nailed the part of the secretary who sings “You Can Always Count of Me.”

  “My God. I can’t believe anyone even remembers that. I loved that role. Loved that song. I love playing sluts.”

  Babs added, “We’re including a hookers-r-us sideline to our hit women site. Time to get laid! Six frickin’ years. Shee-it.”

  I grinned. “This is why both Babs and my ex are up next on the hit list. Neither of us is pleased at attaining virgin status again.”

  Roger nearly choked snorting his beer. “I’m going to ignore the virgin comment and ask if you have means as interesting as the wasp trick for the exes. I have need for a death by something for an ex and I may want to copy.”

  “Oh. Uh. Haven’t gotten terribly far into it but basically Clayton Harrison needs to be eaten by a shark—bad lawyer joke you know— and Todd Kittredge will be sent sailing off a roof after partaking of strong hallucigens. Preferably in black garters and a corset and landing next to four under aged drag queens.”

  Babs raised her glass, “Here’s to virgins hallucinating!”

  I blinked. “How much booze did you consume before I arrived?”

  She shrugged and splashed part of her drink on her sweater. “Oh, I don’ know. P’raps ‘bout a pitcher?” She glared at me. “I ate.”

  “What did you eat? Precisely?” I asked patiently.

  “Soff tortillas and lotsa melted butter. Everything else hert'zes way too much. The tooth.”

  Joey bit his lip. “She had maybe one tortilla. That's it. Not exactly the dinner of champions.”

  “Ah. Okay. Time for Babs to go home.” I smiled at Joey. “She’s my best friend and I love her dearly but I have to acknowledge that she has never, in her life, been able to hold her liquor, with or without benefit of food.”

  “I’ll let you take her home then. Otherwise I will be very tempted to take advantage of her obviously sloshed condition, and aside from my daddy always saying that was not a gentlemanly way to get into someone’s drawers, I’d rather be engaged in those activities when Babs is in a better state to participate.”

  He helped me get Babs to her feet and I hugged him. So did Babs— only hers was far more enthusiastic. “I’m really fine. Really, really! Really.”

  “You’re crocked. Really, really.” I grabbed my purse and opened my wallet intending to pay for Babs and me but was immediately poo-pooed by Joey and Kameron.

  “Put it away. We’re all flush and all old school about women paying. Go home,” was the comment from Kam.

  I thanked them all then dragged a protesting Babs toward the door. Just before we made our exit, she turned and waved. Then, using those excellent vocal skills in projection that had so enraptured the Tennessee Williams’ loving crowd in the un-miked-five-thousand-seat house she yelled out (to the vast entertainment of the thirty or more patrons at Maria’s) “Hey! Wanna bump off anybody? Give us a ring! We’re Sweet Cream Ladies, Limited. You call—we kill!”

  Chapter 5

  “My head hurts.”

  I glanced over at the couch. “And this surprises you—why?”

  “Oh shut up. I swear I didn’t drink enough to cause this massive collegiate drumline to be marching through my brain.”

  “Babs, two margaritas are enough to make you strip naked and dance on the number Seven train to Queens. You downed an entire pitcher last night and Joey said you nibbled at a soft tortilla. Not a ton of nutrition in there to soak up the booze, girl. Aspirin is in the bottom shelf of the medicine cabinet. A full bottle if I remember correctly. I’d suggest about a dozen.”

  “So, did I do anything embarrassing?”

  “Define embarrassing.”

  “Oh, throw Joey Carmichael on top of the tortillas, tear his clothes off and beg him to take me there and then?”

  “No. That you did not do.”

  She gave me a long look. “Oh—ka
y. There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “Well, you did kind of announce to the world that Sweet Cream Ladies, Limited was in business.”

  “Oh crap.” She paused, then grinned. “Any takers?”

  “Not yet but the day is young. Go shower and I’ll man the phones for clients.”

  “Wanna know the worst of all of this? My stinkin’ tooth still hurts. It’s a toss-up between my head and my molar. Add me to the hit list. Make me first. Just make it quick.”

  Babs staggered toward the bathroom amidst much moaning, groaning and anguished cries of pain. I ignored her other than to suggest she also take a shower since it would clear her head and hopefully clear the apartment from the smell of perfume and tequila—both of which were lingering on her body. Her response was unrepeatable.

  I had tepid coffee and an omelet ready for her once she’d cleaned up and taken massive painkillers. She sank down onto the stool that faced Leo’s kitchen, took a large gulp and quietly asked, “Okay. I did not sexually harass Mr. Carmichael, but did I say anything remarkably stupid?”

  I grinned. “Yes and no. You apparently made your feelings concerning Monica Travers very clear at the audition studio and that was before you ever raised a glass. At Maria’s you were pretty funny and charming and then you made that announcement to the world we were planning to become hit women and hookers.”

  She blushed. “I still can’t believe I did that. Wow. Totally blitzo.”

  “You did and you were. I wouldn’t lose sleep over it—half the folks listening were too drunk to care and we might get business out of the other half.”

  “Oh. My. God. Well, never mind. We’ll deal. So before all that, uh, what did Joey say? Do you think he likes me?”

  “He’ll call you after cheerleading practice on his way to the prom. What are you—thirteen?”

  She giggled. “I’m tellin’ ya, he makes me feel that way. He’s a cutie. A smart, funny cutie.”