Soap Opera Slaughters (11 page)

“Migod, Manny, just because it’s got beer in it, I’m not going to drink it!”

“Shah...
He jerked his thumb at me.

“Manny, it’s not something I’m ashamed to admit. I’m an alcoholic, Gene.”

Which told me what she was having refilled.

Antabuse is used in rehabilitative therapy for alcoholism. The effect of disulfiram (the generic name for the drug) is to trigger off a severe bout of sickness in a drinker who goes off the wagon to any degree whatsoever. Antabuse is powerful enough to incapacitate a patient who sneaks a sip days or even weeks after ingesting the tablets. The drug is prescribed cautiously, since some people suffer worse attacks than others. In rare cases, mixing Antabuse with alcohol might even be fatal.

“Joannele,” Manny said, clasping her hands in his, “one of my other customers on disulfiram developed a bad rash from an alcohol rubdown. You want maybe your scalp should turn red for the color cameras?”

“See how he takes care of me?” Joanne kissed his forehead.

“Did she leave lipstick?” he asked. When I told him there was indeed a smear, he beamed. “I’ll never wash my again!”

Blowing him another kiss, Joanne returned the shampoo to the shelf she got it from and chose another brand.

On the way back to the studio, I brought up the subject of the animosity between her and Florence McKinley.

“No mystery there,” she said, stepping into the street to circle around a truck blocking off the sidewalk. “The Dragon Lady resents me because I was once close to Ed, and now that he’s gone, you can bet she’s going to use her influence with Joe Ames to have me written out.”

“Did she really take Ed away from you?”

“She told you that?” Her eyes blazed briefly, but the fire quickly died. ‘I’m sure that’s what she’d like to have everyone believe, but it’s not true. It’s my own fault the relationship ended.”

“How? Why? It’s obvious you’ve never stopped loving him.”

“But not half so much as I adored myself in those dim, dark prehistoric times. Ed wanted the marriage
shtick,
kids and all Smartass little Joanne thought her precious career came first. So I had an abortion without even telling Ed I was carrying his child. He found out, and that ended us. Eventually, he settled for the Dragon Queen, God knows why. I went out and bought a dog I could pretend is my kid, and here I am, stuck with one mutt and Numero Uno.” A bitter smile. “Who says life ain’t a soap opera?”

We crossed Eleventh in silence. The main entrance of
WBS
now was cluttered with five or six fans of both sexes armed with cameras and autograph books. The fat guy Lara and I posed for in the early
A.M
. was gone; I’d seen him trailing behind me and Joanne on the way over to Manny’s pharmacy, but he wasn’t around now, so I guessed he got all the autographs he’d come for. In the midst of the present knot of “Riverday” admirers I noticed an elderly bespectacled man in expensive, though slightly garish sportswear. As he shoved his way up the steps and into the front lobby, I asked Joanne whether she knew who he was.

“Yes. I almost didn’t recognize him. His name’s Woody. Why?”

Before I could reply, the fans converged. Joanne signed the proffered pages politely, pleasantly. One motherly woman in her sixties shyly asked if there was any chance “Martha” would be out?

“I don’t know whether Ms. McKinley is involved in today’s episode,” Joanne lied, “but if you give me your name and address, I’ll see to it that she sends you an autographed picture.”

Effusive thanks. The woman jotted the information on a diary page and tore it out for Joanne to take with her.

On the way to the side door we’d come out of, Joanne grumped about Florence’s aversion toward the fans.

“You’re supposed to sign autographs, it’s part of the job. We’re symbols, that’s what keeps us working. We’ve got a responsibility to the viewers.”

“But are you personally going to force Florence to mail that woman a picture?”

“Are you kidding? Forging the Dragon Lady’s scrawl is Micki Lipscomb’s job.”

The barrier behind which lay the sound stage was painted with big white letters:
DO NOT OPEN DOOR WHEN RED LIGHT IS ON
.
The light was off.

“I have to run upstairs and get the hospital
shmatah
I’m supposed to wear,” Joanne said, “but I’ll go in and check where they are first. If your clearance came through, I‘ll let you know.”

“Thanks. I’ll wait here.”

She began to open the thick padded door, but stopped with her hand on the knob. “Gene, did I tell you everything you need to know?”

“Well, I may think of something else later.”

“I hope you do.” The smile she gave me was pure Eloise Savage.

She disappeared behind the door, and I was stuck once more on the unwonderful side of the looking-glass.

I
WAITED A WHILE,
but nobody came out of the sound stage door. Lack of sleep was catching up with me, and I began to nod on my feet, but a sudden sharp voice at my elbow brought me awake.

“Well, well, how all occasions do inform...

No mistaking that tart timbre. I turned and saw Hilary standing near me in the hall, hair tied behind in that tight knot which was generally a signal that she was in a no-nonsense mood. The lines of her light gray suit were as severe as her expression.

“Well, well, how all occasions do inform...

“Maybe.”

“My God,” she muttered, “you sure work fast.”

“Look,” I told her, unwilling to involve myself in our customary verbal fisticuffs, “I’m going to pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

An angelic smile. “How traditional, Gene.”

I counted silently before responding. “Hilary, the only reason I’m here is to investigate Ed Niven’s death.” It was not without calculation; it reminded her who had the license.

“I’m impressed. The Great Brain, Frank Butler, is so successful that he’s opening a New York office, too!”

I told her my boss had nothing to do with my being at
WBS
. “I’m doing a friend a favor.”

“A friend? Whom?”

Just then, the sound stage door opened. Lara emerged, saw me and Hilary and froze. After an awkward silence more damning than speech, Hilary, acting as though she’d noticed nothing, addressed her cousin in a brisk tone.

“Jess Brass just called. She still wants to interview you. Should I tell her to go to hell?”

“No, she’s too powerful to cross. Set it up.”

“When and where? She says she’ll come to the studio whenever—”

Lara shook her head. “No way. After the column she wrote this morning, she’d better stay far clear of Ames.”

“Why?” I asked. “What did Brass write?”

“The truth. That Ed didn’t hand in a new ‘Bible’ on time. That we’re going to run out of storyline soon and Ames can’t hire a new head writer fast enough. That our ratings will slip badly.”

“You’ve got a spy on staff,” Hilary observed.

“Afraid so. That’s why Ames is livid. He wants to find out who the informer is.”

“Well,” said Hilary, “Florence McKinley is the only cast member well known to be in Brass’ good graces.”

Lara and I exchanged a look.

“All right,” Hilary said, “I’ll try to set up a lunch interview with her tomorrow. Okay?”

“Yes.”

With a curt nod of her head, Hilary turned sharply and departed. I watched her till she rounded a corner and disappeared from view.

“She’s in one sweet mood,” I remarked.

“Her way of coping, Gene. Would you prefer histrionics?” Lara glanced at her watch. “I’d better get back on set. You’re cleared, so come on. By the way, where
did
you disappear to?”

“Took a walk with Joanne Carpenter.”

Lara shot me a sharp glance. “Oh?” A single chilly syllable.

“A prime suspect, remember?”

“Yes. Sorry.” She promptly looked sheepish, for which I gave her points over Hilary. ‘It’s not like me to play Jennie Jealous. But Joanne’s a very horny lady.”

“A very lonely one, anyway.”

“Hey, junior, watch that empathic streak.” She gave me a quick squeeze. “Hilary warned me about it.”

It was my turn to say “Oh?” icily.

“Galahad in galoshes.”

“What the hell’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“That’s what she dubbed you. My cousin says all a woman has to do is bat her eyes helplessly and you’ll wade through a gutterful of crocodile tears to rescue her.” Dimpling at my irritation, Lara gave me another affectionate squeeze. “Hey, don’t look so steamed.
I
think it’s a lovely trait in a man. In moderation.”

“Meaning Joanne comes under the classification of immoderate”

Kissing a fingertip, she touched it to my lips. “Lover, when it comes to storm warnings, you’ve got twenty-twenty.”

Had it been Hilary, I would have argued, but that’s because my former boss expects commitment without making any in return. Instead of objecting, I attempted to return her kiss in more traditional fashion, but Lara stepped back.

“Not now, you’ll smear my makeup.” Opening the thick muffling door to the taping facility, she invited me to go through. “Come on, Gene, it’s about time I introduced you to the dream factory.”

My first impression was confused: the vertigo of too much space, vast and cloaked in shadow. I expected the “Riverday” sound stage to be big, but its immensity staggered me. When I stepped through the door, I found myself on a metal platform suspended in space. Looking down, I saw the concrete floor at least ten feet below. Far above me I could barely discern in the gloom a grid of cables, pipes and fixturing. I looked down again, then back up and estimated that from floor to ceiling it must be at least thirty feet.

Lara came up behind me and, placing her hands on my shoulders, whispered, “Some day, my boy, this will all be yours.”

“My God, I had no idea it was this huge! How high is it, anyway?”

Four stories.”

A flight of black iron stairs led from the platform down to the studio floor. As we began to descend, I realized the reason it was so dim was because we’d entered on the studio’s perimeter and most of the place was masked by enormous black burlap curtains hanging down from poles at the edge of the ceiling grid. Yards and yards wide, the coarse draperies blocked off most of the illumination from the arcs and floods suspended over the various sets, which, at the moment, were hidden from view.

Walking softly, we left the stairs and Lara led me along the edge of the place, a wall on our left—padded, with two more iron stairs leading up to the second floor of
WBS
—while on our right we skirted the cloak of the great curtains. We passed a makeup table equipped with lamp-ringed mirror and touchup supplies scattered and smeared on its powdery surface. A chubby technician in a matching messy smock smiled at Lara over his paper coffee container, but she shook her head, declining his services.

Further along, just before the barrier drapery ended, I saw a man hunched over an electronic prompting device. A scroll of paper in it displayed what I assumed must be lines from the “Riverday” script just being taped. The dialogue was printed in enormously oversized letters; they were so big that only a few lines showed.

Matt (on telephone)

YES, ROSALIND?

Nurse (on telephone)

MS. SAVAGE INSISTS ON SEEING YOU.

Matt (on telephone)

DID SHE SAY WHAT SHE WANTS? SHE KNOWS I’M OFF DUTY.

That’s all the lines that showed. But as I watched, the scrap of script began to crawl upward, vanishing into the prompter’s upper compartment New dialogue emerged from the bottom roller.

KNOWS I’M OFF DUTY.

Nurse (on telephone)

SHE’S VERY UPSET. WE CAN’T DO A THING WITH HER.

Matt (on telephone, SIGHS)

WELL, I KNOW HOW DIFFICULT SHE CAN GET. BETTER TELL HER I’LL BE THERE AS SOON AS I CAN MANAGE IT.

I asked Lara what the man sitting by the prompter was doing, since there were no actors in the vicinity to be cued. She explained there was a duplicate roller on the set that moved in tandem with the remote. “He hears the lines over his headset and keeps the rollers paced with the actual flow of the scene. He’s got a stop-start foot pedal that works both prompters, so we’ve always got the next line we have to say in front of our eyes if we need it.”

“Ingenious. Why even bother learning the lines?”

“You’re
kidding,”
she replied. “How can you act, project emotion, move around if you don’t know your lines? Prompters are only for emergencies, so if you draw a blank, you can pick up your line without stopping the tape.”

Meanwhile, the big block letters crept up again. My mind boggled over the amount of labor the thing represented. I couldn’t imagine how it was possible to turn five scripts a week into the huge scrolls required.

THERE AS SOON AS I CAN MANAGE IT
.

Nurse (on telephone)

THAT’S A RELIEF. SHE WONT EVEN TAKE HER MEDICINE UNLESS
YOU
GIVE IT TO HER. I SWEAR SHE THINKS IM TRYING TO POISON HER.

Matt (on telephone)

HAVE FAITH, THE CAVALRY’S COMING. I SUPPOSE I’D BETTER HAVE A LITTLE

The crawler stopped in midsentence. The technician peeled off his headset, sat back and stretched.

“Problem on set?” Lara asked him. He nodded. “Come on, Gene, let’s see what’s going on.”

We rounded the corner of the big black curtain and turned right into a long, wide vista of cable-strewn concrete. On either side of a central aisle, rooms and porches and business establishments stood in two long rows, like model environment booths at an industrial show in the New York Coliseum. I recognized them all, the various locations in which the action of “Riverday” unfolded, familiar places I’d seen at home on television. Near us on the left was the same Jennett living room set that Ames harangued the cast from earlier that morning. An actress who played a nurse was sitting on the sofa studying her lines; at a card table a pair of extras labored over the
Times
crossword puzzle. All three performers were intent on their respective activities; none of them noticed us as we walked by.