Final Curtain (5 page)

“W
hat’s wrong with this picture?” Polly said to Placenta as Tim drove the Rolls along Santa Monica Boulevard in Beverly Hills, heading home. “Who’s lying? Sharon says she quarreled with Gerold, but Gerold swears he wasn’t in the theater—although we saw his car in the parking lot.”

Tim glanced at his mother and Placenta in the rearview mirror. “You heard Sharon. Whenever she thinks she’s in hot water, she tries to cover her hiney. In other words, she’s a liar.”

“Human nature,” Polly tut-tutted. “How many times have I given an interview and had to call Lindsay or Christina or Barbra and insist that I was quoted out of context? It’s called ‘The Blame Game.’”

Placenta harrumphed. “I vote for Gerold being the super-sized Fib Monster.”

“Yeah, I don’t buy Shamu strolling the streets of Glendale for exercise at eight in the morning,” Polly said. “The only activity that man gets is reaching for Little Debbie—and I don’t mean the snack cakes. We need more personal info about that Yeti—and Sharon too. Turn right at Sunset, hon,” she instructed Tim. “Let’s pay an unexpected visit to dear ol’ Charlotte Bunch.”

The Beverly Hills stretch of Sunset Boulevard was wide and bordered on both sides by tall palm trees and immense neo-Renaissance-style mansions of unimaginable expense. Estate after ostentatious estate, the grandeur became so commonplace that after a while one hardly noticed the homes. As Tim chauffeured his mother and Placenta east toward Hollywood, he entered Charlotte Bunch’s address into the car’s GPS and followed the voice directions. After forty-five minutes the voice chip finally announced, “You have reached your destination.”

Tim double-parked the Rolls on Gardner Street, opposite a two-story, four-unit apartment building with a sign on the front wall that announced
TUSCANY VILLAS. LUXURY ONE-BEDROOM APARTMENTS. VACANCY
.

Polly frowned. “Luxury? Maybe compared to a cave in Afghanistan.”

The building was a disaster, with curb appeal that only a demolition contractor would appreciate. The stucco was probably white at one time, but was now Purina Puppy Chow beige with layers of dirt and smog that had filtered through the air and settled on the paint. The balcony decks on the second level were slanted and looked unsafe to hold even a Hibachi grill. One unit was decorated with a string of Christmas lights around the front door, and a paint-on-velvet portrait of the Virgin Mary, which was hung like a holiday wreath—in July. “God, this could almost be the apartment I grew up in,” Polly said. “Except that ours had Elvis on velvet.”

Placenta shook her head. “We should have called first. Charlotte’s going to be embarrassed when she opens the door and finds the rich and famous Polly Pepper standing on her cracked concrete front step.”

“We don’t have time for social etiquette,” Polly snapped as she opened the car door.

Tim complained that the parking situation looked bleak. “Even if I find a place, it wouldn’t be wise to leave a Rolls-Royce unattended in this neighborhood.”

“That’s why we have insurance. Park it in that driveway.” Polly pointed to a narrow lane between Charlotte’s building and the even more squalid apartment units next door. “If someone needs access they’ll honk.”

“Or shoot,” Placenta warned.

Tim rolled his eyes and followed his mother’s instructions.

The trio approached apartment number 1. At the pockmarked door a hand-printed label above the doorbell read
C
.
BUNCH
. Polly looked at Tim and Placenta with a “Here goes” expression and then pushed the button. After a moment the door flew open and a Siamese cat raced outside. Charlotte, who was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, yelled, “Let the coyotes make a meal of you. D’ya think I care?” Now, standing before Polly, she plastered a wide smile on her face.

“As I live and breathe!” Charlotte cried. “It’s Polly Pepper! For heaven’s sake you are as sweet as your image—coming to check up on me after that nasty bit of business this morning.” She leaned in to hug Polly. “Please come in!” Tim and Placenta followed.

“You’re not opening your wrists in the tub, I see,” Polly said as she moved past Charlotte and into the apartment. “It only
seems
like the end of the world, hon. You’ll get a better job.”

The interior of the building—at least Charlotte’s unit—was the polar opposite of the exterior. Charlotte’s small apartment was clean, although extremely cluttered, and boasted calming cream-colored walls and dated cottage cheese ceilings. The furniture wasn’t new, but it was well crafted and heirloom quality. A Persian rug accented the floor, and framed, autographed eight-by-ten black-and-white pictures of famous Hollywood stars were neatly arranged on tables throughout the living room. Polly and her entourage were impressed and each said as much to Charlotte as she offered them a drink.

“Maybe a teensy flute of champagne,” Polly suggested.

Charlotte laughed. “Safeway-brand red table wine is about as good as it gets in this house. I can get a whole case for the cost of a bottle of the brand of champagne that the
National Peeper
says you suck down night after night.”

Polly tittered. “As long as the wine isn’t poured from a box!”

“You haven’t lived until you’ve enjoyed Chateau Walgreen’s!” Charlotte peeled with more laughter. “The twelve-thirty
P.M
. reserve vintage is
très extraordinaire
!”

“With a screw-on cap and expiration date on the label?” Polly joked.

“A skull and crossbones, too! Right next to the surgeon general’s warnings about side effects from prolonged exposure to the fumes!”

Polly could only hope that she was kidding.

“Sit, sit, sit,” Charlotte insisted as she turned off the television, which was showing an old movie on TCM. She moved into the kitchen—which was actually part of the large open room, divided from the living space by a bar counter—and brought out wineglasses from a cupboard. When she reached for a bottle, Polly gave a silent sigh of relief to see that it required a corkscrew.

“Haven’t got any brie and crackers or hors d’oeuvreez,” Charlotte apologized. “But this is actually a good bottle that I’ve saved for a special occasion. And what could be more special than a visit from TV’s greatest star ever? Oh, listen to me, I’m sounding like a fan. Which of course
I am
!”

Polly smiled. “I’ll bet you say that to MTM and Carole B. too. But please keep stroking—said the bishop to the nun—’cause I never get such attention at home!”

Charlotte regained her composure. “This wine came from Maureen Stapleton’s cellar. Most of what I have comes from dead celebrity estate sales. The old-timers are dropping off so fast, there are one or two such sales almost every month. I can hardly keep up.”

As Charlotte handed the drinks to her guests, Polly wondered which dead star once owned the sofa on which she was seated, and who, she asked herself, previously sipped from the glass she now held in her hand? As if reading Polly’s thoughts, Charlotte pointed to the sofa and said, “Shelley Winters. Feel the dent where she sat?” She then lifted her glass and tapped the nail of her index finger against the side and made a
ping
sound. “Richard Dawson.” She frowned. “No, that can’t be right. I think he’s still with us. Oh, I know, June Allyson. See what I mean? It’s impossible to keep up!”

“After the day we’ve had, this is just what the doctor ordered, eh?” Polly raised her glass to Charlotte. “I still can’t believe that no-talent maniac Gerold Goss canned you and Hiroaki. Hands down, you would have stolen the show. Even from me!”

Charlotte smiled. “No way. You’re the star! You’re the living legend that audiences want to see. I’m just a supporting player. Although I do have some good lines, don’t I?” Charlotte spoke with an air of self-assurance. “By the way, I’ve been
unfired
, or whatever the word is for getting my job back.”

Polly’s eyes widened in astonishment. “You’re your own replacement! Splendid! I suspected you were bargaining with Gerold this morning when you told him he’d be wise to reconsider his decision to terminate your services.”

“I don’t think I ever said that.” Charlotte’s brow furrowed. “I think Gerold knew that with the show opening in only ten days, and Sally Struthers in Cleveland with
Damn Yankees
all summer, he would be hard-pressed to find another Gooch on such short notice. Another drinky?” Charlotte took Polly’s near-empty glass from her hand and walked back into the kitchen area.

Polly spoke up to be heard on the other side of the room. “It’s dreadful that Sharon Fletcher, a beautiful young soap star with everything in the world going for her, would beat the living crap out of our dear Karen…with her bleeping Emmy no less! Usually nothing in Hollywood is original. However, I have to give her kudos for a novel way to kill the messenger.”

Tim and Placenta each sat up a little straighter. “If you ask me, it was premeditated,” Polly said. “Sharon knew she was being dumped and wanted to get even. I’ll bet she thought it would be poetic to use an acting award as her weapon of choice.”

“God knows a cheap-o Tony wouldn’t have made more than a dent in the poor woman’s skull,” Charlotte agreed as she returned Polly’s glass to her guest.

Taking another long sip of wine, Polly swallowed and asked if Charlotte agreed that Sharon probably knew in advance that she was being booted out of the company.

Charlotte turned to Tim and Placenta. “More wine for you two?”

“She couldn’t have avoided the rumors,” Polly said.

“Rumors?” Charlotte asked innocently.

“Hell, when my agent called to say I’d booked this job he insisted that I watch my back. He warned that it was common knowledge that Gerold Goss had plans for his girlfriend to be cast in this show, which could ruin our chances of getting to Broadway. But what better part for her to play than the character who is practically her real-life counterpart? Or so I’ve heard.” Polly shook her head. “And who is this little wannabe anyway? Where does she come from? Where has she worked?”

“Other than on her back?” Placenta said.

“Is she Equity or SAG?” Polly continued. “Is she listed on IMDB?”

“Mag Something-or-other,” Charlotte said. “She has a Valley Girl accent. Uses a lot of words like ‘cool’ and ‘rad’ and ‘awesome.’”

“Brava!” Polly raised her wineglass, impressed with Charlotte’s performance. “You should be Meryl Streep’s dialect coach!”

“It’s why I became an actor.” Charlotte beamed. “Can you guess who this is?” She then told an old chicken joke in a voice that was dead-on Polly Pepper. Then, a cappella, she launched into the song “Let Your Fingers Do the
Talking
,” special musical material from Polly’s 1980 Emmy Award–winning one-hundredth-year musical birthday television celebration of Helen Keller: “Lady
Signs
the Blues” (in which Polly had starred with Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, and Diane Schuur).

Polly, Tim, and Placenta applauded wildly. “Where did you learn to do that?” Polly said, still laughing at Charlotte’s caricature of her.

Charlotte shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t help impersonating people. This talent used to get me into trouble when I was a kid. One day I tricked my mother into thinking she was talking on the phone to Ed McMahon. Using his voice I told her that the Prize Patrol had taken a wrong turn and couldn’t find our house. After Mother gave directions, the poor thing waited all day and all night for Ed to arrive with a big cardboard check, champagne, and a bouquet of flowers and balloons. Of course he never did come to the house. Mom even called
The Tonight Show
to try and reach Ed. I know better now, but at the time I didn’t think it was cruel. I just wanted a big laugh.” Charlotte sighed.

Without prompting, the hostess volunteered that during the first rehearsal for
Mame
, director Karen Richards had taken issue with her Irish brogue. “Lovely woman, but don’t tell me how to speak my lines with an accent, Irish or French or German or Russian. I excel in all of them,” Charlotte said. “Hell, Marlene Dietrich is living up here.” She pointed to her temple. “I’m not usually so adamant about anything. But don’t tell me that I should practice with a dialect tape!”

“God only knows why directors cast us if they’re not going to let us do what we are hired to do!” Polly said. “What did Karen say?”

Charlotte took another sip of wine. “Karen let it pass. After all, I’m not usually a tantrum-throwing Michael Richards. I was about to apologize when you came in and rushed the stage. Now I feel guilty that I never had an opportunity to tell her that I was sorry for acting like an amateur.”

Polly shook her head. “I’m positive that she didn’t give it another thought. Her bio says she directed Kelly Ripa in
Ain’t Misbehavin’
. Surely in your worst moments your fits couldn’t compare to her rumored legendary flare-ups.”

Charlotte put a hand on Polly’s shoulder and sighed. “I wish that I could be more like you. Everybody in the business adores Polly Pepper. She never makes a fuss. Never makes a false move, publicity-wise. No scandals. How do you do it?”

“Champagne,” Polly deadpanned. “There’s nothing like inebriation to make you forget what you’ve done. Kidding of course,” she quickly added. “But speaking of problems, Sharon Fletcher has a big one. I’m all for stringing her up, but Tim and Placenta over there have their doubts about her guilt.”