by Harper Lin
“And Cliff Armstrong. He’s the worst because he’s the sexiest.”
Bingo. I had a hunch it would be something like this. I was never one to believe in stereotypes, but sometimes stereotypes exist because they are at least partially true. Casting couches and passing around young starlets like a game of fleshy Musical Chairs had been a part of the Hollywood scene since the silent era.
That thrill I always get when I find a piece of the puzzle was dampened by the discovery that my screen idol had feet of clay. A girlish reaction, I know, but I couldn’t shake it. Cliff Armstrong had such a way with the crowds, like when he picked Octavian and I out of the group and mistook us for an old married couple. His work with charities was unrivaled. He gave millions away to worthy causes, and pulled stunts like showing up at people’s houses who had sent him fan mail and hanging out for the afternoon. He wouldn’t even bring cameras along when he did these things. It wasn’t for the publicity; he did it just to give back to his fans.
I had really admired him, and believed that he was different from the usual plastic people Hollywood created. If what this frazzled Assistant Casting Manager said was true—and she should know—he was no different than the rest of them.
My disappointment must have been apparent on my face because the woman who had just hired me put a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it. You have to have a tough skin in this business, even if you’re a nameless extra. Look, you get a hundred bucks a day, free food, and get to see yourself on the big screen. So what if you see some skeezy stuff going on? There are worse jobs.”
Like hunting down Salvadoran drug lords? Yeah, there were worse jobs.
I started to fill out the form and heard the Assistant Casting Manager breathe a sigh of relief. She really must have been short of old people. I would have suggested Octavian or some of the folks from my reading group if there hadn’t been a murderer loose on the set. Better to keep them away.
The form stipulated that I gave up all rights to royalties or how my image could be used. There was also a waiver stating that in case of injury, sickness, or death the production company and none of its employees could be held liable. I think I shivered a little as I signed that section.
“Great!” She snatched the form out of my hands as if I might change my mind at the last moment, and handed me an ID card. “This card will get you on the set. First you need to go to costuming. They’re those two big trailers you saw in the parking lot.”
When I got to the trailers, I was guided to the right one by someone singing George Michael’s “Freedom” at the top of his lungs. I peeked in through the half-open door and saw the interior jam-packed with racks of Colonial-era clothing, everything from ragged slave shirts to fine dresses to British uniforms.
The song continued in a high falsetto.
“Hello?” I called.
The song cut off short and a tall, quite handsome man in his forties poked his head around a pile of leather boots. His best feature was the luxuriant black curls that fell to his shoulders. His worst feature was his fashion sense. He wore a Hawaiian t-shirt, pink shorts, and flip flops. He looked like he should be knocking back Piña Coladas in Boca Raton, not helping run a major motion picture.
“Are you here for costuming?” he asked in a singsong voice.
“Yes.” I produced my card.
“Fabulous! We desperately need an old crone.”
“I’m hardly at the old crone stage.”
He put a hand on my shoulder like that frazzled woman had. These Hollywood people were a touchy feely bunch.
“Oh, honey, you must be new. I didn’t mean to say you’re a crone. No, you’re very well preserved. But we can apply a bit of makeup and age you twenty years.”
“That’s not the effect makeup usually advertises.”
The Costume Director wasn’t listening. He was too busy rummaging through the racks of costumes and holding one costume after another up to me. All looked very grungy and tattered. Perfect fashion for an old crone, I suppose.
After several tries, he threw his hands in the air.
“I give up! It just won’t work! You don’t fit.”
I blinked. “Does that mean I can’t be in the movie?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We need a crone, and you are simply too sweet looking.”
For a moment I couldn’t think of a response. I felt stumped. I’d never been complimented out of a case before.
Chapter Four
“I’m sure I could play the part if you just gave me a chance,” I pleaded. I needed this role. How else could I investigate the murder? If I left it to Grimal, the killer would get away. Even worse, Cliff Armstrong might get killed the next time instead of a stunt double.
“No,” the Costume Director said with a sigh, hanging up the tattered rags.
“What about some crowd scenes? Couldn’t I be some sweet little old lady watching the battle?”
The Costume Director threw up his hands. “No one wants to see sweet little old ladies watching battles! It doesn’t make any sense! Even if it did make sense it would be as dull as dirt. When Vance Randolph shoots a crowd scene he doesn’t want just the same old, same old. He wants vivacity! Vitality! Verve! Vivaciousness!”
“And vacuousness too, no doubt.”
He pointed at me like some demon from the lower depths of hell about to lay down a curse and said in a solemn voice, “No, that is exactly what he doesn’t want. Every member of a crowd scene must have their own distinct characteristics. Old people just fade into the woodwork. It’s like they’re not there at all.”
I put my hands on my hips and glared at him.
“Young man, we are not invisible. One day you’ll be old too, assuming someone doesn’t run you over with a Mack truck for being so disrespectful. Disrespecting the elderly is disrespecting your own future!”
The Costume Director stared at me, mouth agape. For a second I thought he was going to sputter out an apology. Instead he burst into laughter.
I stood there fuming. Before I got a chance to give him a few choice words, he grabbed me by the shoulders again.
“If you were a man I would kiss you, instead let me give you a hug.” He hugged me before I could say yes or no. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. You are perfect for the role!”
Despite his change of mood, I frowned at him. “What, I give you a little lecture and now I’m perfect for the crone role?”
He looked confused for a moment, then threw his arms wide. “The crone? No! I want to give you a speaking role! Old Widow Margaret Goode. She helps Cliff Armstrong defeat the British. No one suspects her, because she’s old you see? A British officer is staying at her house and making her wait on him hand and foot, and when his fellow officers come over he talks about their plans for a secret attack on the American camp. Old Widow Margaret Goode listens to it all and tells Cliff Armstrong, who then saves the day.”
For a moment I was stunned into silence. Me, in a speaking role next to my film hero? Unbelievable.
I’d like to say that I jumped at the chance since it would get me that much closer to him and help me with the case, but no such thought even crossed my mind. My mind was too full of adolescent fantasies of him falling in love with his supporting actress and sweeping me off my feet.
Reality intervened soon enough, thankfully. It’s the old CIA training. Nothing like having to fight terrorists and international drug dealers to make you cynical.
“Wouldn’t Mr. Randolph have to decide that?” I asked.
The Costume Director tut-tutted. “Of course, but he’s a rubber stamp in this case. He only concerns himself with the important roles.”
Or the young ones, I added silently.
“I would have thought you already had that part filled.”
“We did, but the actress had a heart attack a couple of weeks ago. Occupational hazard when you work with old people. We’ve been trying to find someone to fill the slot but we didn�
�t have any luck, at least not until today. Now I suppose you don’t have any acting experience, otherwise you would have come in here bragging about how you deserve something better than being an extra, but don’t worry. We have dialog coaches and acting coaches and all that. We’ll get you through. It’s only a few lines anyway.”
“I … um …”
The Costume Director gave me a hopeful look. “Please say yes. It pays well.”
“Of course I’ll do it,” I managed to choke out at last. I was already getting jitters about having to work next to Cliff Armstrong.
“Brilliant,” he squealed, clapping his hands. “I’ll set it all up.”
He pulled out a cell phone and had a long conversation with some secretary, who shifted him to a higher secretary, and then to the Casting Director. This got him referred back to the frazzled Assistant Casting Director I had seen, because the Casting Director was having plastic surgery down in Mexico. I gathered all of this from the side of the conversation I could hear. What confused me was why the Costume Director didn’t seem surprised that a person in such an important position would be going under the knife in a foreign country when there were vacancies in what was intended to be next summer’s blockbuster.
When he finally got off the phone, I asked about that.
The Costume Director tittered. “Well, of course he can go to Mexico! He’s getting a chin implant and a tummy tuck. You have to understand priorities in this business. Lovers are more important than family, the film is more important than lovers, and plastic surgery is more important than anything.”
“I see,” I said. I didn’t.
“Anyway, honey, you’re hired. I told Quinten we had a brilliant new talent for the role of Margaret Goode and that you didn’t have any chronic health issues that might kill you off before we finish your scenes.” He gave me an appraising look. “You don’t, do you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Brilliant! You’re hired. I’ll send you over to the acting coach right away and get you up to speed.”
The acting coach was a man named Harvey Miller, and Harvey Miller was passed out drunk when I met him.
He had an office in one of the little trailers that filled up what used to be one of the main roads through Cheerville, now blocked off to serve as a sort of annex to the filming going on in the town square. A good quarter mile of a two-lane road, plus many of the adjoining driveways and parking lots, had been taken over with a small town of trailers. Signs showed which offices or dressing rooms each were, and there was even a map on a poster board at the entrance. The security guard studied my ID badge for a moment and let me in. There was no picture on my badge so it didn’t count much as identification. Their security wasn’t all that tight, it seemed.
Nor was their professionalism. As I said, Harvey Miller was blotto when I got to his trailer.
The door was open, and after knocking repeatedly on the doorframe and not getting a response, I peeked inside.
A short, paunchy, balding man lay face down on the floor, still gripping an empty bottle of whiskey as he snored gently. The room stank of alcohol.
Besides the half-dead body of my supposed acting coach, the trailer had a fridge, a kitchenette, a couple of chairs, and a desk with a computer and stacks of papers bound in those little black plastic circle thingys that always catch on your clothing or come unwound after reading through the pages more than once.
I stared at Harvey Miller for a moment, nonplussed, then went over to the next trailer, which identified its occupant as “Bill Nestor—Acting Coach.”
Bill Nestor was vertical, and quite annoyed that I interrupted him coaching a cute little blonde boy of about eleven. They sat on chairs facing each other, each holding a script in his hands and both looking like they were in a bad mood.
“I’m in the middle of important work,” Bill informed me.
“My acting coach is passed out drunk.”
“Harvey, right?” Bill groaned.
“Of course it’s Harvey, dumbass,” the boy said. “He’s the biggest lush in the business.”
“Is that any way to talk about your elders?” I asked the child.
“Shut up, I make more money than you do,” the boy snapped.
I was so taken aback that I was struck speechless. Bill got up.
“Wait here, Evan. I’ll be right back.”
He walked out of the trailer and I followed.
“Charming young man you have there,” I commented.
“He’s a little piece of trash I’d love to stuff in a dumpster,” Bill grumbled. “But he’s a rising child star and Vance Randolph thinks he’ll help sell the movie.”
Then I realized I’d seen the child on a television sitcom a year or two before.
“He’s a bit young to have fame go to his head,” I said.
“Ha! You must be new,” Bill said as he entered Harvey’s trailer, stepped over his body, and went to his desk.
“People keep saying that to me.”
Bill rummaged through the stack of bound papers.
“What’s your role again?”
“Margaret Goode.”
“Let’s see. Margaret Goode. Margaret Goode. Oh, here we go.”
He handed me a thick script.
“This is the script for the entire movie. Best to familiarize yourself with the whole thing. You have three scenes. They’re marked with the red tags. They’re shooting those scenes the day after tomorrow so memorize those lines quick.”
“The day after tomorrow?” I yelped. “How am I supposed to get ready?”
Bill grinned and gave Harvey’s body a kick.
“I suggest you start by waking up your acting coach.”
“Can’t you coach me?” I pleaded.
“Me? No, I have to spend all my time with that half-pint monster who just insulted you.”
“Bill, hurry the hell up!” the monster in question shrieked from the other trailer. “We got work to do, you unprofessional loser!”
Bill rolled his eyes, grabbed a contract off Harvey’s desk, and handed it to me.
“You can’t take the script until you sign a nondisclosure agreement.”
“My hand is cramping from all the forms I keep signing,” I complained.
Bill looked at me. “My hand is cramping from resisting the urge to spank that little brat in my trailer.”
“Bill, get your ass in here!” the kid bawled.
“Why don’t you stop resisting that urge?” I asked.
“And get fired, sued, and brought up on charges? No, I’ll take the daily stress and humiliation, thank you very much.”
I signed the contract, Bill forged Harvey’s signature, and he left with a sigh. A moment later I could hear him enduring a torrent of abuse. I closed the door to spare my ears.
That didn’t spare my nose. With the air circulation cut off, the stench of alcohol became almost overpowering. I gritted my teeth and endured it.
Since I was alone, my first instinct was to do some snooping. I didn’t find much of use. Harvey had copies of scripts for all the roles he was coaching. All of them were minor ones such as “Townsman Number 2” and “Man in Stable.” Rummaging through his desk drawers, I founded several empty bottles of whiskey, two full bottles of vodka, and a hip flask filled with something that smelled like paint thinner. Perhaps it was paint thinner.
I spent my entire working life around soldiers and thugs, and if there’s one thing soldiers and thugs know how to do, it’s drink. I’ve learned as many cures for hangovers as treatments for gunshot wounds.
I got to work.
Chapter Five
First thing first. I put Harvey on his side so he didn’t choke on his own vomit, then went to brew some coffee at the little kitchenette the trailer had. Once I’d brewed up a strong pot, I poured the coffee into the container where the water was supposed to go, put in a new filter and grounds, and brewed it again.
A word of warning to the generally sober—do not try this at h
ome. Brewing coffee from coffee instead of from water creates a nasty smelling liquid more akin to motor oil than coffee. It will burn your throat, roil your stomach, and send razors through your gut.
It will wake you up, though.
Once I was done, I propped Harvey into a sitting position with his back against the wall (I was not going to risk bringing on an attack of sciatica by trying to get him into a chair) and poured some of the coffee down his throat.
I was rewarded by him sputtering, coughing, and then sending a plume of twice-brewed coffee into my face.
I smacked him quite hard on the face several times. To wake him up. Really.
Harvey mumbled and slumped a little bit. I held up his chin and poured some more coffee down his throat.
He swallowed it this time, mostly because I had clamped his mouth shut and the liquid had nowhere else to go.
Once I felt satisfied he had swallowed, I poured some more down the hatch and clamped his mouth shut. Wait. Repeat.
After I’d given him about half the pot, I let him be. I sat on the chair to one side of him, to avoid any nasty surprises if his stomach decided to reject my concoction, and waited.
He muttered, rocked his head back and forth, and rubbed his hand weakly along his face before letting it fall back to his side.
“I wish I killed him,” he mumbled.
I blinked, unsure if I had heard correctly. It couldn’t be this easy, could it?
“I wish I killed him,” he mumbled again. “Bastard deserves to die. I wish I had blown up that overrated piece of dirt.”
He didn’t use the word “dirt”. I won’t repeat what he actually said.
Then he mumbled something incoherent, let out a deafening belch, and opened his eyes.
They were glazed and bloodshot, and stared at the wall opposite him.
“Piece of dirt,” he repeated.
Once again, “dirt” was not the word.
“PIECE OF DIRT. THAT WAS MY DAMN GIRL. I’LL KILL THE FINK!”
Okay, that was a poor translation. Allow me to try again.