Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  “The early bird gets the worm,” Donna says, busily stacking photos on the white linen. “I’ll never understand celebrities who show up late at these things. Once those doors open, people just swarm the tables.”

  She sets a cash box on the table and spreads out a handful of pens. “I’ll handle the money. All you have to do is sign. What do you think of the pictures?”

  “Great.” I’m relieved to see that two are Holiday publicity stills of Jinx in her top hat, and a third is a glamour shot from my studio contract days. “Where did you find these relics?”

  “Actually, they’re mine. I just had copies made.” Donna glances at me, her face reddening. “C’mon. I told you I was a big fan.”

  “You want my autograph?” The moment the words spring from my lips, I regret them. “Sorry! Just kidding.”

  “Yeah, I would, actually, if you don’t mind.” Donna quickly slides a photo in front of me and uncorks a pen with silver ink. “Just put something like ‘To Donna, friends forever.’ Or whatever you’d like.”

  “Okay, but I’m not going to charge you full price.” We both laugh, but I can feel myself tensing. This event is shaping up to be a colossal embarrassment.

  “Look at you, already hard at work.”

  I look up to find Shelby Stuart wheeling a piece of luggage behind the table next to me. “Hi, Shel. You spending the night?”

  He winks. “If you’ll spend it with me, I’ll get us a suite.”

  Donna explodes into reckless giggles, startling me. I introduce them. Shelby looks her over and extends his hand. “Hey, baby, didn’t I see you on the set last week?”

  “I was helping Meg out,” she says, her face aglow as she shakes his hand. I’ll have to make sure he signs a photograph for her before the end of the day. I once again remind myself to see about Alex Trebek.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be here?” Shelby asks. He unzips his roller bag and produces four binders of photos, a plastic tube with an assortment of pens, a money belt, and a bag of trail mix. He also lines up several cellophane-wrapped boxes of an action figure representing a lead character he portrayed in a sci-fi series back in the mid-seventies. I pick up one of the boxes to get a closer look.

  “Don’t bother turning it upside down,” Shelby says. “It’s not anatomically correct.”

  Donna breaks into convulsive giggles. I put the box down.

  “I didn’t know I’d be here until this morning, Shel. You’re obviously an old hand.”

  “You kidding me? You do one cult series, and you can travel the world doing these shows. And it’s all cash, too,” he says, out of the side of his mouth. “If you’re interested, I can hook you up for a bunch of these. Expenses paid. Guarantees. You name it.” He leans closer, speaking just loudly enough for Donna to hear. “We could travel together. Have a little fun, you know?”

  Donna makes a gasping sound that dissolves in a strangled giggle, but it’s enough to satisfy Shelby. He winks. “Think about it, Megs.”

  The doors open to the public. Fans surge to my table, saving me from having to respond. Before I know it, there’s a crowd three deep waiting to get Jinx’s autograph. I sign. I smile for snapshots. Not one fan fails to address me as Miss Barnes. Several ask complex questions about plotlines for shows I barely remember doing. Almost everyone asks if Winston Sykes is still alive. Three people show up in black cardboard top hats they want me to sign.

  Shelby leans over. “You gotta brand yourself, Meg. Buy up a bunch of those top hats wholesale and sell ’em to the fans. You’ll make a mint.”

  “Great idea!” Donna says, nodding shrewdly. “I’ll look into it.”

  This isn’t what I do, I remind myself. But then I glance at the bills piling up in the cash box and have second thoughts. Two hours later, Donna closes down the line, and we make a break for the restrooms. On our way out of the banquet room, we pass Jenna and her actor husband seated side by side at one of the tables. I catch her eye and wiggle my fingers in greeting. Does everyone I know do these shows? Why have I never heard about them?

  The main lobby is a carnival scene. Donna runs interference through mobs of fans, many dressed in what appear to be Halloween costumes. Ghouls and Trekkies mill about, but there are creature look-alikes of every description. We order tuna fish sandwiches from the coffee shop and wolf them down in a sunny patio near the swimming pool. Then it’s back to work in the noisy, airless banquet room.

  By four o’clock, my hand is cramped. My jaw muscles ache. Time for another break. Donna packs up the cash box and leads the way to the restrooms. I follow, squirming past a knot of space warriors checking out one another’s garb.

  Dead ahead, I spot a familiar figure. I stop abruptly, toe-to-toe with my former husband. Dirck is wearing a leather jacket, his hair artfully mussed, looking not unlike a character he once played in a motorcycle movie early in his career. If the stars had been aligned to advantage, and his biorhythm chart properly attuned, Dirck would like to think he’d be enjoying Robert De Niro’s career today. Alas, there was a cockup in the firmament that summer, and Dirck scored nothing more than a modest paycheck and a leather jacket.

  “Dirck? What are you doing here?”

  He cracks a smile at my surprise. “Not much, as it turns out. An old buddy of mine is working the show. He thought he could get me a table if somebody backed out at the last minute. What the hell, it was worth a try. You want to grab a coffee?”

  “Where’s Pru?”

  “At her sister’s. C’mon, let’s get some coffee.”

  Up ahead I see Donna peering around, looking for me. “Sorry, Dirck. I’m with a friend. I ought to get back.”

  “What, all those years together and you can’t give me five minutes?” He serves up an elaborate New York shrug. “I gotta stand in line and buy a picture to talk with you? Gimme a break already.”

  “Why not?” I laugh, as much at the familiar gesture as Dirck’s delivery. I raise my hand to snag Donna’s attention. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”

  She nods, craning to see who I’m with, but Dirck’s already steering me into the throng. The moment we veer off together, I regret it. This can’t be a good idea. He must sense my change of heart, because he squeezes my arm and says, “No reason we can’t be friends, right? Bygones are bygones.”

  We skirt the cappuccino trolley with its long line of fans and head for the relative calm of a roped-off alcove that’s been designated CELEBRITY HOSPITALITY. We bypass the snack table and find the coffee urns.

  “I saw you with ol’ Shelby in there. He’s still trying to get into your pants? That guy never quits.”

  “You’ve got that right.” My heart bangs an extra beat. I still can’t recall if I ever slept with Shelby. I hope I don’t remember. “We’re close to wrapping the pilot we’ve been working on. He played my defense attorney.”

  “Yeah?” Dirck shakes his head, his eyes dull with envy. “No kidding. The bastard sure gets the breaks. Series regular?”

  “Recurring, at best.” I sip my coffee, knowing I’m about to slip into my give-Dirck-a-boost mode. “But so what? You’re teaching. You’ve cornered the voice-over market. And you’ve got Pru.”

  “Yeah, yeah. And Pru.” He touches his Styrofoam cup to mine and gives me a friendly squint. “I have to give you full credit, Meggie. I saw you sitting there, raking in the dough. Man, I wish I’d bagged a big series like you did. You’re set for life. To tell you the truth, I wish we could’ve shared all that. But someone had to stay behind and hold down the fort, right? I guess you figured you needed to travel light.”

  “Hey, that’s not what happened—and you know it.” His words pick at scabbed flesh. Somehow I’m always to blame when things don’t work out for Dirck.

  “No? Maybe you’ve forgotten.” He leans in, his fingers running across my wrist. Fans snapping pictures at a distance would think he was hitting on me. In a way, they’d be right. I edge away, but Dirck catches my arm. “We mad
e quite a team, you and me. Too bad you felt you had to move on. You saw your chance and made a break for it. What do you think that did to me? I was left with nothing. I’m still trying to make a go of it.”

  “Look, maybe this isn’t such a good time to talk. I’d better go back.”

  “Why? It’s not like you need the money. What’re you doing this for? I’m the one who could use a little cash. They won’t even give me a table.”

  “You need money? Is that why you wanted to talk?”

  “C’mon. I got bumped from a table because you’d be a bigger draw. I’m forced to go on a reserve list because you’ve got some manager who throws her weight around at the last minute. Man, that pisses me off.”

  “You’re blaming me? I don’t have a manager. Donna’s just a friend. I had no idea I’d be coming to this thing. Are you really short on money?”

  “What do you think? We got a kid on the way. I’m out here scrambling for work, and it’s not happening. You think I want to worry Pru? You haven’t a clue what it’s like.”

  “Just stop, okay?” Shaking, I set my cup on the counter, squelching an impulse to toss coffee on his tough-guy jacket. “Look, I’m sorry. Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I slip past a knot of people standing at the ropes watching celebrities hobnob, and race back to the banquet room. Hordes of fans surround my table. Donna catches sight of me and flaps her hands. “Thank God! Where have you been?”

  “Sorry! I’m really sorry,” I say, nodding to everyone. I lean in to Donna, my back to the crowd, and whisper, “Give me a couple hundred, okay?”

  Her face turns to stone. “What for?”

  “A friend. Just a couple hundred. We can spare it.”

  “Are you nuts? You’re giving money to your ex-husband? Why?”

  “That’s my business. How do you know who he is?”

  She makes a face. “Because I recognize him. You’re crazy. You know that, don’t you?” Still, she fishes money out of the cash box and hands it to me.

  I turn to the fans, several of whom look irritated. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll be right back.”

  Dirck is waiting for me at the door. I press the money into his hand. He unfolds the bills and glances down. I can tell by his look it’s less than what he’d hoped for. I also see relief. “Thanks. I appreciate it. Hey, I’m sorry, all right?”

  “That’s okay. It’s a baby gift. Take care, Dirck.”

  I’m about to return to the needy, impatient faces at my table, but instead I flee to the ladies’ room. It’s jammed. While I hesitate at the door, wondering if I should join the long line, everyone queuing up turns to look at me. A teenage goth in a fright wig shoves a scrap of paper in my hand. “Just make it to Sandi, with an i. Thanks.”

  I look at the white face with the maroon lips and realize that while I wait in line to pee I will be signing autographs until I can make it into one of the stalls. That is not something I want to do.

  “Sorry, I don’t have a pen.” I manage to smile as I back out the door. Making my way through the mobbed lobby, I feel like I’m in my worst ever furniture dream, except that I’m wide awake and these are people, not sofas and chiffoniers. By the time I squeeze behind my table and take in Donna’s accusing look, I’m in full-blown panic. Still, I smile. I smile at everyone, even Donna, who is not smiling.

  “Glad you could make it.”

  “Sorry, Donna.” I pick up a pen, the din in the room crashing in my ears. “How soon can we wrap this up?”

  “Are you kidding? Look at this line. We still have more than two hours to go.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I whisper. “Find the last person and cut off the line. I mean it.”

  Donna grasps that I’m serious, although it’s probably hard for her to tell since I’m still smiling. But she gets it. Eleven fans and eighteen signed photos later, we’re packed up and heading for the door.

  “You’re mad at me,” she says when we reach the parking lot.

  “I’m not mad. I’m just not cut out for this.”

  “What about tomorrow? We’re signed up for two days.”

  “Sorry, but I’d prefer spending the day fasting in the hot sun, wrapped in barbed wire.”

  “You won’t make as much money doing that.”

  “We’ve made more than enough, okay? Too much adulation can’t be good for the soul. Deduct your expenses and we’ll split fifty-fifty.”

  “Not a chance. This was for you. You need the money. I’ll deduct the car repair and photographs. You keep the rest.”

  “Nothing doing.” I sling my arm around Donna’s shoulders and give her a hug. “Thanks, okay? I really mean it. Why don’t you tell the organizers to give Dirck my table tomorrow?”

  “Honestly, no wonder you’re broke. You really are nuts—”

  I hear Donna’s protests, but I’m distracted by the sight of an all-too-familiar junk heap parked in the next aisle, its convertible top down. Out of the corner of my eye, I see its occupant slouched down behind the wheel.

  The anger simmering since my encounter with Dirck boils over. I tighten my grip on Donna’s shoulders. “Listen, something’s up,” I whisper as we turn toward her Mercedes. “Just open the trunk and stay quiet.”

  “What? Someone’s following us?” She hugs the cash box to her chest.

  “Sort of. Just stay behind the car, okay? No matter what—”

  As soon as Donna flips the trunk open, I duck down and make my way between the cars. The rusting convertible’s only occupant is asleep behind the wheel, his keys still in the ignition. Crouching low, I sneak up on the passenger side. With my heart banging, I reach over and snatch the keys.

  “Hey!” The curly-haired hunk grabs for my arm.

  I leap back. “Hey yourself. Who the hell are you?”

  “Gimme my keys—” He climbs out of his car, looking more exasperated than menacing. He throws his shoulders back and tugs on his T-shirt, a gesture at once vain and insecure. His face has a Slavic cast, with dark, brooding eyes and full, pouting lips. “C’mon, lady, the keys!”

  “I don’t think so. What’s your game anyway? Why have you been following me?”

  “Keeping an eye out. That’s all I’m supposed to do.”

  “For who? Sid Baskin?”

  A smile cracks his face. “You kidding me?” He shakes his head and saunters around the front of the car. “Lady, you’re gonna wreck everything. Just gimme the keys—”

  “Get away from her!” Donna shouts. “Stalker! Leave her alone!” She clicks on her car alarm. At the sound of the raucous beeping, people in the next aisle turn to look.

  “Hey, lady, gimme a break. I’m no stalker!”

  “So why are you following me?”

  “Protecting an investment, okay? For interested parties—”

  The alarm attracts the attention of several fans who’ve bought signed photos from me. The young man looks uneasy as a small crowd gathers.

  A warrior from some space tribe that wears spandex and shiny white plastic armor steps forward and removes his helmet. “You need help, Miss Barnes? This guy bothering you?”

  “Back off, space monkey. This doesn’t concern you—”

  “Then leave her alone, mister—”

  Taking advantage of the distraction, I reach into the passenger seat of his car to grab a packet of mail. I edge back toward the Mercedes, glancing at the address on one of the letters before stuffing them in my shoulder bag.

  “Hey, Grigori. Is that your name? Who are these interested parties?”

  The young man whips around, glowering. “Greg! My name’s Greg, okay? Can we drop this? I’m just helping out my dad. Like part-time. I got a band, okay? I’m a musician, not some—”

  “Really? A band? Like the Shreak Wizards, maybe?”

  An inspired guess, as it turns out. Greg slaps his forehead like he’s been dive-bombed by a hornet. “Oh, jeez, let’s forget this, okay? My old man’s gonna kill me if he hears about this—�
��

  “So who’s your dad? A guy named Vladimir Proznorov would be my guess—I’ll bet he doesn’t want to be called Bill, either. Tell me, what line of work is he in?”

  “Oh, man.” Greg shakes his head. “You don’t want to know. Can we just move on? Gimme my keys and I’m outa here. Fair enough?”

  “And you don’t call me anymore asking about Coop, okay?”

  Donna shuts off the alarm. The beeping stops mid-burp.

  In the silence, the man stares at me, his jaw slack. His dark, sullen eyes give nothing away, but his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard a second time. “Look, with me you got it easy. All I have to do is keep track of you. Nothing rough. Nobody gets hurt. I’m not into that, okay?”

  “But your old man is, and he thinks I’ll lead him to Coop, right?”

  I’ve already opened the door to the Mercedes by the time Greg says, “Who? I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “Sorry, Grigori. I don’t believe you. And I don’t want you following me anymore.”

  I fling the car keys to the space warrior, who catches them in his helmet. Greg lunges toward him, but not before the keys are lobbed to a Trekkie in maroon polyester, who tosses them skyward toward the hotel’s maintenance facility. The keys arc high over a sign—DANGER! HIGH VOLTAGE—and disappear on the roof behind curling barbed wire.

  “Shit!” Greg breaks away and runs toward the utility building. Meanwhile I jump in the Mercedes and slam the door. Donna turns on the ignition. I lean out the window. “Thanks, guys!”

  The space warrior grins. “You take it easy, Miss Barnes. See you next time.”

  I wave as we pull out of the parking space and drive past Greg, who’s looking up at the barbed wire. Appropriately enough, Donna makes the tires squeal as we skirt the crowd and pick up speed. I plug in my seat belt and grip the armrest.

  As we approach the exit, a middle-aged woman, wearing sweats and a sun visor, pumps her arm and hollers, “Go, Jinx, go!”