by Lutz, John
“I’d like to know how the old one got on yesterday’s tape,” Youngerman said.
“Me, too. But that’s beside the point. The thing is, Sy, we’ve got to act fast. Everybody in every beauty shop and bar is talking about yesterday’s show, but they won’t be for long. You know the duration of the public’s attention span—about as long as a gnat’s pecker.” Youngerman looked down at his desk, at the idea Overbeck had put in writing. It was the product of a lot of hard work; Overbeck must believe firmly in what he was suggesting, that a character be added to “Shadowtown,” a mysterious male heartthrob known during the day only as Graveman, who becomes a vampire roaming “Shadowtown” at night. Adding such a character was a sound commerical impulse, Youngerman had to admit. And the show’s writers liked the idea a lot. Or so Overbeck said.
“We catch the crest of this wave of public interest,” said Overbeck, who to Youngerman’s knowledge had never surfed, “and the show’s ratings will climb back where they were, Sy. That’s what we all want. Even Manny Brokton oughta want that, with his ten percent of Lana.”
True, Youngerman thought. He drummed his fingertips and considered Overbeck’s arguments. Some of them were compelling in a dollars-and-cents way. And what better way to compel?
“So I’ll call him,” he finally said, convinced. “We’ll see who he’s got available. You got anybody in mind?”
“Yeah, Sy. A young actor name of Brad Gaines. He’s got the dark, brooding looks the part calls for.”
“Can he act?”
“Not like Olivier. But he can think on his feet, ad lib with the best. He was an improv comic early in his career.”
Youngerman liked the sound of that. A certain kind of balance and dexterity was necessary in a show that was ground out as fast as “Shadowtown.”
“Believe me, Gaines is a can’t-miss, Sy.”
Youngerman’s memory stirred. “Brad Gaines … He the guy played the cowboy in the ‘Going West’ mini-series on ABC last year?”
“The same. And he was on one of the new Hitchcock spots. Played a young gambler dying of cancer. Moody stuff. I looked over a tape of the show and he was great.”
“I’ll ask Brokton about him,” Youngerman said. “See if he’s committed to anything.”
“If we pay enough,” Overbeck said, “Manny Brokton will break a contract and uncommit Gaines. That’s one of the advantages of dealing with scum.”
“I’ll feel out Brokton, see what Gaines has to have to play the part. Maybe we can tie his contract in with the show’s ratings.” Youngerman swiveled back and forth for a few seconds in his padded swivel chair: Scum. That was Manny Brokton, all right. “Harry, who do you think tampered with the tape and made Grume appear in that scene?”
Overbeck began pacing again, slower this time, his hands at his sides and his head bowed in thought. “I don’t have a hint of an idea,” he said at last. “In this business, who knows who might have the expertise to doctor the tape? And damn near everybody had the opportunity, if they wanted to take the trouble and accept the risk.”
That’s what was unsettling, Youngerman thought. Damn near everybody. Like at his party. He couldn’t be sure himself who might have come and gone during the evening of Vince McGreery’s death. And the same person might have gained access to the tape of yesterday’s show.
Overbeck looked directly at him in a way Youngerman had never seen. “Maybe nobody tampered with the tapes, Sy.”
Youngerman set aside the uneasy feeling that had crept into his mind. “Nonsense, Harry. You think a vampire’s image just appeared like a force of nature?”
Overbeck ran a hand over his bristling brown hair. “Hell, I don’t know, Sy. There are forces of nature we might not have fully explored. I’m no scientist.”
Youngerman was astounded. “You saying you believe in vampires?”
Overbeck shrugged. “I’m not sure what I’m saying—what I believe or don’t believe anymore.”
“I mean, if you believe we’ve got a real vampire on the set, he might work cheaper than the one Manny Brokton comes up with.”
Overbeck grinned. “Point taken, Sy. Guess my imagination runs riot now and then.”
“Not much wonder,” Youngerman said, “considering all that’s happened around here lately.”
But as Overbeck left his office, Youngerman did wonder. He’d never thought of Overbeck as the superstitious type. It was Harry’s business judgment, his instinct, that had helped to make “Shadowtown” a leading soap, and everyone connected with the show knew it— including Youngerman.
It worried Youngerman that Overbeck’s judgment might be impaired. Vampires, yet. Hoo, boy! But everyone connected with “Shadowtown” seemed to have been affected by what had gone on the past week, so why should Overbeck be any different? People believed in Allah and reincarnation and faith healing and faith killing and rabbits’ feet and astrology. Maybe it was vampires’ turn. For all things a season.
Youngerman told his secretary to get Manny Brokton on the phone. It was time to order another vampire, even though one had been more than enough.
E. L. Oxman—3:30 P.M.
Oxman checked with Actor’s Equity, then with various old show-business types who hung around the Carnegie Deli, and finally found out where Marv Egan lived.
He knocked on Egan’s door, wondering what Egan looked like; he’d never heard of him as an actor, knew only that ten years ago he’d been Lana Spence’s leading man in an independently produced film. And that their on-screen affair had generated some steam off-screen. The old-timers at the Carnegie Deli were eager to talk about Lana Spence, a burgeoning legend despite still being young enough to maintain her sex-symbol image.
“Minute,” a deep voice grumbled on the other side of the door. But it was at least two minutes before the door finally swung open.
Egan looked too old to have played opposite Lana, even ten years ago. Oxman was reminded of the ravaged features of Burt Lassiter. But then he hadn’t seen Lassiter alive. Egan’s face was puffy and deeply lined. It was browned in a way that would have suggested he frequented an artificial-tanning spa, if it weren’t for his impoverished circumstances. He was an average-height man, and his head was set forward on his shoulders in a manner that hinted at aggressiveness, even though he was smiling with perfect white teeth Oxman suspected were false. He was still lean-waisted, but with a definite stomach paunch bulging over his tight, faded Levi’s. The Levi’s and his red plaid shirt made him look more like the super of the decrepit building than an aging actor.
Oxman identified himself and said he wanted to ask some questions about Lana Spence.
“Ah, the bitch!” Egan said, grinning wider and stepping back so Oxman could enter. Maybe they were his own teeth. And maybe his full head of straight dark hair wasn’t dyed.
Oxman stepped into the apartment and the stench hit him. It smelled as if someone ill lived there, a mixture of mentholated oil and stale perspiration often encountered in sick wards.
Egan must have noticed his reaction. “Got a damned cold,” he said. “Trying to get well.”
But judging by the sloppy appearance of the apartment—the sofa with its sagging cushions, a chair lying on the floor, yellowed drapes, grease-spattered wall in the kitchenette—Oxman thought Egan probably lived like this all the time. Maybe the menthol was used to cover up some other scent he didn’t want anyone to notice.
“Wanna sit down?” he asked Oxman.
“I’ll stand, thanks,” Oxman said, eyeing the shaky-looking furniture. A large, dark roach zigzagged among some long-ago smashed fellow creatures on the wall and disappeared behind the sofa.
“I been following Lana’s recent adventures,” Egan said, tucking his thumbs in his Levi’s pockets and standing hipshot. It was a young man’s pose, cocky and poised, probably from one of his old play or movie roles. It didn’t look right on him. “Seems she’s mixed up in the occult.”
“Only seems that way,” Oxman said.
“Oh?
”
“Unless you believe in the occult. Do you, Mr. Egan?”
“You mean like that story about the guy who was nailed to a cross and died and then came back to life?”
“You going to be difficult, Mr. Egan?”
“Me?” Egan grinned again. He was likable when he grinned. “No trouble from me, Officer. Tell you whatever you want to know.”
“I want to know about Lana Spence.”
“White-hot bitch. Was and still is, according to what I been reading in the papers, seeing on the news.”
“Do you ever watch her on ‘Shadowtown’?”
“Hell, no.” He motioned toward the apartment’s tiny black-and-white portable TV with its kinked rabbit-ear antenna. “I don’t watch anything on that little idiot box. Helped to put me out of work.”
“There’s plenty of work for actors on television,” Oxman said.
“No, Sergeant. Not for actors. Most of the people they call stars nowadays would be selling insurance if show business still called for acting skills. More work for stunt men now than for actors. Gotta be able to handle a helicopter or somersault onto a mattress. Study gymnastics instead of method and motivation.”
“Lana Spence,” Oxman reminded him, thinking about Lana somersaulting onto a mattress.
“We were a thing together for a while, about twelve years ago. When we co-starred in Vixen’s Revenge. I played Roy the hunt master. No need to tell you who Lana played.”
“She’s had her share of men,” Oxman said, trying to goad Egan.
“Ha! You don’t know it all. Uses men and tosses them away like Kleenex, our Lana.”
“Would you describe her as a nymphomaniac?”
“Naw. A real nympho doesn’t actually enjoy sex, just has to do it again and again. Believe me, Lana enjoyed sex, enjoyed draining the life from her men. Goddamned black-widow woman.”
“I’ve heard her called that before,” Oxman said.
“I’ll bet you have. She try to get you in the sack?”
“No.” Oxman wondered if he was speaking the truth.
Egan was flashing his white grin in his lined, browned face, some of his old dash peeking through time. A swashbuckler but with years on him.
“When did you last see Lana?” Oxman asked, uncomfortable in front of that knowing grin.
“Oh, ten years. No, come to think of it, I ran into her … must have been four or five years ago. She was in Rumpelmayer’s, eating a chocolate sundae. I kidded her, told her she was going to ruin her figure. She didn’t laugh. I think she would’ve made a scene if I hadn’t backed off and gotten out of there. Sometimes she’s sensitive about her looks.”
“Who do you think might send her threatening notes or try to kill her?” Oxman asked.
“Almost anybody who’s ever met her.”
“That seems a bit of an exaggeration.”
Egan sighed and wiped the thick sleeve of his plaid shirt across his forehead. It was a warm afternoon for him to be wearing a shirt like that. “I guess she’s genuinely liked by some people. Some men, even. At least the man who’s balling her at the moment. I get a little carried away sometimes, Sergeant.”
“Still hate her?”
Egan seemed to think about that. “No,” he said after a while. “Or maybe yes, but not in the way you mean. She’s something that happened to me, that’s all. Circumstance. Like if I was caught up in a tornado. Lana was my bad luck, but I guess I don’t hate her. No, not anymore.”
“Did you know Burt Lassiter?”
“Never met him. I know he was an actor for quite a few years around New York. On and off Broadway. Saw him a few times at auditions, maybe at a cocktail party, but nobody ever introduced us. I heard he was another one of Lana’s victims.”
“He was. A lot of years ago, though.”
“Yeah,” Egan said wistfully.
“How long’s it been since you’ve acted?” Oxman asked.
“Too long. I manage to collect unemployment, welfare, do a few odd jobs. The public forgets.”
Oxman doubted that the public had ever really known Egan well enough to remember him. But then Oxman wasn’t one to stay abreast with the lives of the stars, especially those of lesser magnitude. Egan had an actor’s ego; that was for sure.
“How’s she look?” Egan asked suddenly.
Oxman was surprised. “Lana Spence? Haven’t you seen her on television or magazine covers?”
“I mean in person,” Egan said. “Cameras lie. Oh, how they lie!”
“Still beautiful.”
Egan nodded somewhat sadly, resignedly. Zinged again by life. It hadn’t been a surprise.
Oxman felt sorry for Egan. The man, or what was left of him, was another of the human husks Lana Spence seemed to have left in her wake. Egan had described her accurately, Oxman thought. An erotic tornado, touching down and twisting out a path of psychic destruction, creating casualties before moving on.
The phone jangled. The abrupt noise caused Egan to start, as if he were unused to receiving calls. He picked up the receiver hesitantly, listened, then held it out for Oxman. “For you, Sergeant.”
Oxman wasn’t as surprised as Egan was by the call. He’d left Egan’s number in case Tobin wanted to talk to him.
“E.L.,” Tobin said, when Oxman had the ancient black receiver pressed to his ear, “we got more problems. Lana Spence received another threatening note, this time in the mail. The printing, paper and envelope are like the others. So’s the kind of sick handiwork the writer promises to use on her.”
“What about the postmark?”
“New York.”
“How was the envelope addressed?”
“Same kind of generic printing as in the note, Ox. Nothing for a handwriting analyst to grab on to except to say for sure that this note and the others were written by the same person.”
“Then we haven’t moved closer to McGreery’s killer and Lana Spence’s antagonist at all,” Oxman said. “We’re at square one again.” “We spend more time there than the little green house spends on Boardwalk,” Tobin said.
Oxman didn’t bother replying to that.
Egan was staring at him, obviously wondering about the other end of the conversation. Let him wonder.
Oxman hung up, thanked Marv Egan for his cooperation, and was glad to get out of the crummy apartment. The place smelled like victim.
Brad Gaines—4:30 P.M.
“Consider yourself out of the contract, kid,” Manny Brokton Had told Brad Gaines, after Gaines told Manny he couldn’t accept the “Shadowtown” vampire role because of the warrior movie he was to begin shooting in Australia next month. It was to be his second Road King the Destroyer movie. In this one his role had considerably more depth, but still he had second billing to a customized truck.
Gaines had been almost afraid to hope. The “Shadowtown” part could be a doorway to the kind of fame he’d worked toward for years. Not that the soaps provided much artistic satisfaction, but the people who worked in them were pros, and a couple of years on a top soap could make an actor rich, and able to choose his roles.
“Out of the contract how?” Gaines had asked, thinking of the heat and dust in Australia’s outback country.
Brokton had leaned his pudgy five-foot frame back in his desk chair and grinned. He looked just like an evil Buddha when he did that, Gaines always thought. “No agent worth his percentage writes a contract without a kick-out clause, kid. That’s so in case an opportunity like this one comes along, a client can grab it.”
“Legally?” Gaines had asked.
“Legally enough,” Brokton assured him. “This kind of thing’s done all the time, and it never draws litigation.” He seemed to put court action in the same category as flies: Something only moderately rotten might not attract lawyers. He dropped forward in his chair and was on his feet, though he was so short it was hardly noticeable that he was standing now rather than sitting behind the desk. “Go on over and talk to Harry Overbeck. Make sure you feel co
mfortable with the role, then Overbeck and I will talk money. Plenty of money.”
Gaines had thanked Manny Brokton and left the agent’s Broadway office. And now here he was listening to Harry Overbeck, one of the “Shadowtown” producers, explain the role of Graveman on the show.
The soap’s director, bald Shane Moreland, whom Gaines had worked with a few years ago on a TV special about herpes, was also in the office, along with two of the show’s writers. The writers were big guys with dark beards gone a little gray. They didn’t say much, only listened, trying to draw a bead on exactly what the boss had in mind. Like most TV writers, they had about them the air of people who knew they were replaceable.
Overbeck had laid it out coherently. Graveman would appear in the next episode of “Shadowtown” as a handsome hitchhiker the mayor’s wife picked up outside of town. The viewer would be led to believe the mysterious stranger had traveled on through town. But Graveman would appear in the last scene, in the mayor’s wife’s bedroom, and it would be revealed that he was a vampire.
From then on he’d be woven into the fabric of the show on a regular basis, as had been the Allan Ames character, Edgar Grume. Graveman would soon occupy the dark, soft place in female viewers’ hearts that Grume had left vacant after Ames’s death.
It didn’t sound to Gaines as if this could be done plausibly, but judging by the expressions on the writers’ faces, they were confident. Writers were like that. And this was the soaps. Plausibility was hardly a serious consideration; it was necessary only to play within the ground rules laid down early for the viewers. Soap fans weren’t expecting Shakespeare—at least not in any form they’d recognize.
“So how’s it feel to you?” Overbeck asked Gaines. “I mean, does it click?” It was one-pro-to-another time. Producers liked to think they had creative input.
Gaines put on his sincere expression and said what was expected. “I don’t see how it can miss.”
“Not with the publicity we’ve been getting lately,” Overbeck said. He ran his hand over his short brownish hair, a rumpled little guy whose enthusiasm was actually infectious.
