Seattle Noir (20 page)

Mel brought tall glasses and a pitcher of iced tea with frost dripping off it. When he poured, he didn’t spill a drop, that’s how fastidious he was. Skippy needn’t have disturbed the flower arrangement, Mel thought. The least Skippy could do is pick the golf cap off the orchids, put things right. Where were Skippy’s manners? Maybe stars don’t need manners.

Skippy’s tight lips blew light ripples across the iced tea’s crown. He sipped, scowling, and said, “That role was tailor-made for me.”

“M-hmm.” Noncommittal.

Skippy persisted. “It doesn’t compute. Henry’s never played a clown before. This film’s about an aging dwarf clown. Henry Chow doesn’t know the first thing about playing a clown. I know clowning. I should have that part.”

“Maybe they wanted an Asian.”

“Oh, nothing’s definite yet.” Skippy sounded slightly hopeful. “It’s just Lana’s professional gut feeling that Henry’s got it wrapped up. Anyway, if he gets the part, it’s not because he’s Asian.”

“Then why?” Mel was only half listening. He wanted that golf cap removed from the orchid centerpiece, and he wanted Skippy to have the decency to do it. Was that asking too much?

“Because Henry’s shorter than I am.”

“That’s not so. You’re shorter than Henry. They probably wanted an Asian. You know how politically correct Hollywood is these days. Lana Lanai’s the worst of the bunch.”

Skippy was adamant. “Asian has nothing to do with it. If Henry gets this role, it’s because he’s shorter than I am. Now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m growing, Mel.”

The way Skippy said it, so serious, so… melodramatic, Mel couldn’t help laughing. “Ha ha. That’s bull.”

Skippy reached across the table and touched Mel’s sleeve. Lightly, to fix attention on what he was going to say.

“It’s true. I’ve noticed it. You know it sometimes happens to a dwarf. Mid-life hormones get wacky. My hormones must have kicked up. I’m growing, Mel. Real fast.”

Mel smirked.

Skippy insisted. “They noticed it. Must have. Or else Henry Chow did and pointed it out to them. I wouldn’t put it past him and I’m worried sick. This growth has happened over the last six weeks. Too fast. I’m fifty-three, for chrissake. It’s not normal.”

“But not unheard of in dwarfs. You said that.”

Skippy passed a hand across his brow, reminding Mel of Tallulah Bankhead, then said, “Oh God, I’m scared. I’ll never work again. And I bet you noticed it before. You must have noticed my limp. You did, didn’t you?”

Mel nodded solemnly.

“Oh God, I’m finished.”

Softly, Mel said, “What’s the limp all about?”

Skippy had parked his cane on the doorknob. He retrieved it and walked back toward Mel. “See? When I use the cane, I limp. That’s because I’ve grown. Just since I bought this cane two months ago. Cost me a bundle too, cherrywood with all this frippery on the handle. Now it’s already too short for me.

So I limp. If this keeps up, I’ll soon be too tall for the good dwarf roles. I’ll never get work again. Not even as an extra.”

Something dark flickered in Mel’s eyes, and Skippy instantly regretted his remark. “Geez, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been such a lucky son of a gun, and you always ending up an extra. All I meant was, my luck’s changing. That’s all I meant by that.”

Mel laughed and grabbed Skippy’s head like a football, wrestled it, ruffling the soft silver curls. “It’s great,” he chuckled, “just great. I like it. A growing dwarf. It’s hilarious, really. You should try it out on Nick down at the Magic Castle.”

A horrified thought struck Skippy then. He flung himself away from Mel. “You don’t believe me,” he cried. “You don’t buy a word I said.”

Mel stared. Skippy fled the room.

Sighing, Mel gently removed the blue golf cap from his orchids. Apparently stars have the right to ruin centerpieces. Mel took his iced tea outside and finished reading
Variety.

That night Mel made frozen lime daiquiris with dark rum, placing a fresh orchid on top of one. He knocked on Skippy’s door, heard a grunt, and went in. Wide awake, enveloped in darkness, Skippy sat stiffly upright on his canopied bed. Mel set down the daiquiris and jerked the heavy drapes aside. Moonlight poured into Skippy’s cluttered, musty room. Skippy blinked, averted his eyes. Mel pushed a loud chintz chair up to the bed, climbed onto it, retrieved the daiquiri with the orchid, and held it out to Skippy. Skippy waved it away.

“C’mon, take it, sport. My peace offering.”

Skippy sipped the frosty apology, licked his lips, and said, “I fell asleep for a while. I dreamed that Henry Chow died in an awful accident on the SLUT. They found his body floating in Lake Union, all covered with Satan’s hoof prints. The train had derailed.”

Mel aimed a remote control at the flat screen. Crazy colors flashed. Cacophony galloped into the room, riding a loud car chase across the high-def panel.

Mel muttered, “Henry Chow’s an ass.”

V

The next morning when Skippy woke, first thing he saw was the depressing saffron sky. He had no reason to get out of bed, so why was Mel rapping insistently on the bedroom door? Skippy sat up and yelled, “Go away! Don’t bother me!”

The door opened a crack. Through the space came Mel’s velvet voice. “Better get dressed, sport. We’ve got company.”

It sounded like a warning. Grumbling, Skippy burrowed into the sheets, but the scent of coffee brewing, of bacon broiling, eggs frying, wafted to his nostrils. Mel was so clever. He’d left the bedroom door slightly ajar so these delicious aromas would tempt Skippy. Sleep was impossible now. Skippy grumbled and rolled out of bed.

The table in the breakfast nook wore an aqua linen cloth and Mel had folded the napkins into swans. The good plates and Skippy’s mother’s sterling flatware were laid out. An artfully arranged fresh orchid centerpiece seemed too flamboyant. This table was celebrating something, Skippy thought, and then he saw Lana.

Perched on the bench, lumpy Lana sat at Skippy’s place, and with one of Skippy’s mother’s forks she picked at Mel’s home cooking. Mel stood on a stool by the stove flipping fried eggs. When Lana saw Skippy, she called out cheerily, “Surprise, surprise!”

“I don’t like it,” grumbled Skippy. “I don’t like surprises at breakfast.”

Mel smiled. “Why, Skippy, you’re up! Good, good. Lana’s got some great news.”

Lana flicked her wrist, dangling her bejeweled fingers. “Come, sweetie. Sit, sit.”

Begrudgingly, Skippy took a seat at the table. Mel waltzed over and poured Skippy coffee, then danced back to the stove.

“What’s this all about?” Skippy demanded.

“All about you, sport,” Mel bowed deferentially. “Your Eminence,” he crowed.

“Stop clowning! Stop it this minute. Can’t you see I’m out of sorts?” Skippy waved an arm at Lana. “You’re the last person on the planet I care to see right now. What are you doing here anyway? I didn’t invite you.” He shot a furious glance at Mel.

Through the rudeness, Lana said, “Don’t you want to hear the news, honeybunch?”

“Hey, don’t call me that. I’m your gravy train. Why don’t you just call me Gravy Train. Anyway, I’ve already heard the news from Henry Chow,” barked Skippy. “I know he’s got the part.”

A prickly grin crossed Lana’s face and for a moment Skippy thought that Lana Lanai might actually possess nerve endings. Still, when she picked up her coffee cup, watching Skippy over the brim, he didn’t like the expression on her face.

Draining the bacon grease, Mel sang, “Tell-l-l him-m-m, La-an-a-a.”

“You got the part.”

Skippy stared, not daring to believe his ears. Lana scooted over and embraced him. She may as well have embraced a cigar store Indian.

Mel sang, “Skippy Smather-r-r-s starrrrring in… .
Standing Ta-a-all.
”

Skippy stammered, “Is… is it… is it for real?”

“Hey, would we pull your leg?” Mel grinned devilishly.

Lana purred, “It’s not exactly on the dotted line yet, but I spoke with a production assistant this morning who overheard the producers talking. They were discussing you, raving about your great talent, your charisma, your magical screen qualities, your b.o.a.”

Box office appeal.

Skippy batted his hand at her. “I know, I know, I know.” She didn’t have to dote. He despised doting.

Mel arranged breakfast on the table, climbed into his chair, and said, “Hey, I’ll bet they didn’t even notice. I mean, about the growing spurt.”

Skippy felt his stomach churn. He jumped off his chair and fled.

The following afternoon, in Lana Lanai’s Hollywood office, the star paced anxiously. His walking cane made dull thudding sounds against the plush carpet. Mel sat on a long couch leafing through
Vanity Fair
, trying to ignore Skippy’s irritating third footfall. You’d think by now he’d have learned how to walk with that stupid cane. Across the room at the desk, Herself held court.

Two slick-buff film producers leaned over Lana’s chaotic desktop, their Mont Blancs poised over contracts. Mel wanted to snicker out loud. They were all alike, diminishing youth, Bosley hairlines, faceless personas consumed with star envy, converting their filthy riches into control—power—over the gifted artist. Exploiting the artist. Growing rich off the artist’s sweat, the artist’s inherent talents. Sure, they’d invest in a dwarf’s box office appeal, but would they take him out to dinner? Anyway, who remembers a producer’s name in the credits? It was all Mel could do to contain his loathing.

Skippy limped over to Lana, stood on tiptoe, and whispered into her jaded ear. Lana nodded tiredly and waved him away.

Skippy retreated. Lana smiled antiseptically at the producers.

“There’s just one more detail,” she said. “The understudy is to be Mel Rose. That is, should anything happen to Skippy. Which is totally a nonissue.”

The men with remarkable hair glanced up in unison, and in unison they said, “We don’t have understudies.”

“In this case, you’ll have Mel Rose. Or no Skippy Smathers.”

The producers gaped. One said to Lana, “You’re kidding,” and Mel heard derision.

Lana snickered in a way Mel didn’t like. “Otherwise, gentlemen, Skippy won’t sign.”

The producers huddled, conferring in earnest whispers. Finally, one said to Lana, “We’d counted on Henry Chow. If anything happened to our star, we’d made Chow our second choice. Everyone’s seen it that way. Skippy or Henry in the lead. Of course, we might find a bit role for Rose.”

Lana shook her head and studied her acrylic nails.

“Consider our position,” argued one producer. “We need really, really great talent in this role. We need a really, really brilliant actor.”

Mel really, really hated them.

Lana didn’t budge. “It’s Mel or no deal.”

Eventually Lana got her way. She usually did. She knew how. When all the contracts had been revised and initialed and signed, all the insincere handshakes wrung, Lana flung open her office doors to the entertainment media. Bee swarms made less commotion. The Hollywood press doted over Skippy. Fawned over him. Even the producers pawed Skippy now, and Mel noticed one of them pawing Lana. Totally ignored, Mel buried his face in the
Vanity Fair
and waited for it all to blow over.

On the way to the airport, in Lana’s limo, Skippy and Mel were sharing a split of champagne when Mel heard Skippy mutter, “God, I’m terrified.”

“He’s not that bad,” replied Mel, referring to the limo driver.

“I mean something else. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”

Mel said, “Lord help us, what now?”

“My limp. Getting worse all the time.”

“Translation, please.” Mel rolled extra brut around in his mouth.

“I’m still growing. I’ve completely outgrown my cane.”

“Tsk. Then buy another,” retorted an exasperated Mel. “Better still, give it up. It’s so phony.”

“You still don’t believe me.” Darkly.

“Hey, Skipper, would you just quit all this obsessing? You got the role, didn’t you? If you want to worry about something then worry about the first day of shooting. There’s something to obsess over.”

Skippy stared out the window. “I went to see a doctor.

About the growing.”

“And?”

“Got as far as the reception desk and panicked. Ran out of there.”

“Good Lord have mercy.”

“What if they notice?”

“I’m telling you, it’s not that noticeable yet. You’ve still got some time before it’ll really stand out.”

“Then you have noticed it.”

Mel sighed. “Maybe a little. But it’s too slight to get worked up over. Hey, sport, settle down. Look out there. That’s Hollywood, baby, and it’s all yours.”

The thorny subject was not raised again until the first week of shooting, when Skippy came home for a visit, limping up the drive. As usual, Mel was lounging on the chaise reading
Variety.
When Skippy got close enough, Mel saw the deep frown. He put down the magazine and went to fetch Skippy’s luggage.

Mel grabbed the suitcase out of Skippy’s limp hand. “Now what?”

Skippy leaned hard on his cane. “They’ve got the Little People’s Chorus in the scene we shot today? You know Ruby Lee, the lead singer? I ran into Ruby on the set and she commented on how I seem different since she last saw me. I asked, ‘Different how?’ Ruby Lee said I looked taller. Then this afternoon Lana visited the set. Said she’d noticed I was growing. Just like Ruby Lee. Lana said if I didn’t stop growing, the producers would drop me. I don’t know if the director—”

“Autry noticed it too.”

Skippy missed that it wasn’t a question but a statement. He said, “According to Lana, Autry told her they can’t be remaking costumes every five minutes, and besides, he said, an overgrown dwarf’s no good to anyone. Lana says that includes her. Those were her exact words. Then, in a flash, I had this vision of my future. They notice me growing even taller. They drop me from the film. I can’t get work. No one wants me anymore. All along, they only wanted me for my size. Lana’s right. No one will hire an overgrown dwarf. Not in this business. I’m through, Mel. My career is finished.”

Mel put a hand on Skippy’s shoulder and said, “Lana called about ten minutes ago. I’m afraid she had some very bad news.”