Power Play

by Deirdre Martin

  “But isn’t it stupid to do something like this out of vengeance?” Monica asked plaintively. “Doesn’t he care about how it affects the show?”

  “It’s not his brain that’s doing his thinking. I’m going to enjoy watching him go down in flames.”

  “I guess.” Monica took a sip of her drink, trying to ignore the thin swirl of watery blood on Gloria’s plate from her near-raw dinner.

  “Darling, do you know how many times I’ve been written off that show?”

  Monica thought. “Three.”

  “That’s right. Three. Once when I was dragged down to hell by Santo the Demon King to suffer the fires of eternity for stabbing Grayson; once when an iceberg cracked beneath me and I fell into the Arctic Ocean and drowned; and once when I fled town after starting the warehouse fire. It’s not the most horrible thing in the world. You’ve been working like a dog for years. Now you can take a nice break; maybe pursue being a ‘real’ actress.”

  Monica peered across the table at Gloria in the dim light of the restaurant. “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Of course I am. I’ve never understood this fixation you’ve had about not being a ‘legitimate’ actress because you work in daytime. It’s nonsense. No one can make you feel inferior without your own consent, you know.” She gulped down the rest of her drink before waving her empty glass dramatically at their buff waiter to call him over. “Fill ’er up, laddie.” After ogling the waiter as he walked away, Gloria turned back to Monica. “Why don’t you think of this as an opportunity to try to spread your wings? You’ve been saying you wanted to do that for years.”

  “As you know, I tried to spread them a few months ago. Look where that got me.”

  Gloria slid a hand across the table, interlacing her fingers with Monica’s. “How should I put this?” Gloria pursed her bright orange lips. “You’re been in the business long enough to know it’s filled with assholes who wouldn’t know fine acting if it bit them in their asses. We have to take the good with the bad. So you had an encounter with the bad. Onward and upward, I say.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Monica cocked her head, looking at her friend admiringly. “How do you manage to keep so positive all the time, Gloria?”

  “Booze and Prozac. You should try it sometime.”

  Monica laughed.

  The waiter returned with Gloria’s refill, and she blew him a kiss in thanks. “Here’s another good thing that could come of this,” Gloria said after taking a sip of her drink. “You will get a heap of PR. I wouldn’t be surprised if the fans rise up when they realize you’ve been let go, and storm the studio with pitchforks and torches.”

  Monica brightened. “You really think so?”

  “Don’t be coy,” Gloria chided. “You know how beloved you are.”

  Monica knew Gloria was right; Roxie’s death would unleash a storm of protest from viewers. Requests would pour in from the media, all of them wanting to talk to Monica and get a quote from her about how she felt about being let go. Of course, she’d have to play nice and toe the party line, claiming it was time to take the show in a new direction, and she was ready for a break, eager to explore new things. But then the attention would fade, and she would just be Monica Geary, out-of-work actress, former queen of daytime. The thought of invisibility petrified her. It was shallow and egotistical, but she’d reconciled herself to that side of her personality a long time ago. Explore new things. Gloria was right. She should be excited about the possibilities her newfound freedom might offer, but right now, she just wasn’t.

  “Have you told the old snake yet?” Gloria inquired, motioning for their hunky waiter to bring her yet another scotch. Jesus, she’d sucked down that second one fast. Monica worried about what would happen when it was time to stand up.

  “Do you mean Monty?”

  “You know I do.”

  “No, but I plan to. I haven’t been to see him in a while, and I really need to get over there. Want to come with me?”

  “I’d rather snort Drano.”

  Monica cast her a worried look. “You’ve never done that, have you?”

  “No, but Peter Sellers and I tried to smoke a banana peel once. Did nothing.”

  “Well, at any rate, I’ll tell Monty you were asking about him.”

  Gloria stabbed a piece of bloody meat on her fork, waving it at Monica menacingly. “Don’t you dare.”

  “You can’t stop me,” Monica replied, sounding like a child challenging a parent. Gloria’s response was to pop the meat in her mouth with a glare.

  Monica took another sip of her martini. There was someone besides Monty she longed to pour her heart out to, but she couldn’t let herself. Wouldn’t let herself. Good-bye to all that, she thought, trying to be positive. New horizons. Freedom. Time to relax. It sounded good—in theory.

  “Dad called me with a closing date,” Eric announced as he plopped down next to Jason on a bench in Central Park. They were both dripping with sweat after a run. Eric didn’t want to sound superior, but he was thrilled his parent had finally called him with news rather than his brother.

  Jason turned to him with interest, mopping his face with his T-shirt. “Yeah?”

  “Friday, April first. He’s auctioning off the livestock two weeks before that.” Eric shook his head. “The stubborn old bastard is still insisting we’re paying too much for the house.”

  “Did you tell him ‘Tough shit’?”

  “No. I conveniently played deaf the way he used to.”

  “Payback’s a bitch,” Jason joked. He squirted Gatorade into his mouth. “I know this sounds kind of dumb, but I’m actually excited about keeping the house in the family and all.”

  “Me, too,” said Eric, though lately he’d been haunted by visions of himself as the lonely bachelor uncle to Jason and Delilah’s future kids when they were all out there in the summer.

  “Delilah is really excited,” Jason continued. “She keeps talking about putting in a dog run and making Mom’s garden bigger. I’m excited, too. Summer there is great, as you know. Too bad Monica won’t be coming for a visit.”

  “Yeah,” Eric added before falling silent.

  In an effort to fill the vacuum that had just opened up, Jason said, “That cardboard cutout seems to be helping us turn the tide.”

  Eric just nodded.

  “Miss her, don’t you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Any thoughts on a new strategy to get her back?”

  “Nope,” he said, watching a girl with long blonde hair as beautiful as Monica’s jog past. Jesus Christ, even women’s hair was making him wistful now. How effin’ sad was that?

  He tore his eyes from the girl to look at his brother. “I blew it, she doesn’t want me, end of story. Time to move on.”

  “Sorry,” Jason murmured with sincere sympathy. “If there’s anything I can do, or if you just want to talk sometime . . .”

  “Don’t be a fag,” snapped Eric, unsure how to handle this newfound kindness from the jerk who used to throw himself against the wall when their parents were out of the room, then howl with pain and claim Eric had hurt him.

  Eric rose. “Twenty bucks says I can beat you home.”

  “You’re on.”

  They took off, neck and neck as always. The Mitchell boys, Eric thought to himself gratefully. At least one thing in his life was still going right.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  FATHER CHESSLER (LIFELESSLY): It’s time for you to pay, Roxie. Pay for what you did to Tucker Lamont.

  ROXIE (BACKING AWAY TOWARD THE DOOR): Oh, no. Not you, Father. Don’t tell me the zombies have gotten you, too.

  FATHER CHESLER: For so long, I lived in the light. But now I inhabit the shadow world between the light and the dark, between the living and the dead. Our ranks are growing. Soon we will take over. But you won’t be here to see it, Roxie. You must pay for your heinous crime. You must die.

  ROXIE (FRANTICALLY TRYING TO UNLOCK THE DOOR): Please, Father. I’ll do anything yo
u ask. Just let me live! Let me stay in the light. (SHE FALLS TO HER KNEES AS THE PRIEST PUTS HIS HANDS AROUND HER NECK AND BEGINS SQUEEZING.) “Noooo!!!”

  (FADE TO BLACK.)

  “Cut!”

  Monica felt a lump quickly form in her throat. The entire cast was there for her final scene, whether they were shooting that day or not. Jimmy came down to the set, which had gone silent. He looked at Monica and began clapping as she rose from the floor. Everyone on the set joined in, the noise getting louder and louder. Christian and Chesty stood off to the side, grim-faced as Easter Island statues.

  “Thank you,” Monica managed. She would not give that midget bastard and his conniving whore the satisfaction of crying. No way.

  Jimmy came up and put an arm around her. “That was one helluva Friday cliffhanger performance. The viewers are going to go crazy when they tune in and realize Roxie is really dead.”

  “I hope so,” Monica said quietly.

  Monica looked around for Gloria, who seemed nowhere to be found. A minute later she finally appeared, wheeling out a big sheet cake with icing that read Best of Luck to the Best There Is. This time Monica couldn’t hide being choked up.

  “I want to thank all of you,” she said to the cast and crew, sniffling, “for giving me the ten greatest years of my life.”

  “Back at ya, babe,” Royce called back in a surprisingly emotional voice.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” Jimmy said to her. “Promise?”

  “Of course not.”

  The show’s top makeup artist, Josie, showed up with paper plates and forks, handing out pieces of cake to everyone as fast as Gloria could cut them. Everyone took a piece—everyone but Chesty, who was wiggling her way over to Monica.

  “Christ,” Monica murmured to Jimmy under her breath. “Here it comes.”

  “I’m really sorry to see you go, Monica.”

  “Thank you, Chessy.”

  What she really longed to say was, “You’re not sorry at all, you lying little bitch.” But Monica was going for dignity and class right up until the end.

  The party was mercifully brief, as if everyone understood that the longer she lingered in the studio, the harder it would be for her. She said good-bye to them all individually, even Christian, who patted her on the back as of she were a baby in need of a burp. She’d already cleaned out her dressing room the day before, but her coat was there, and she had to go collect it.

  She opened the door, remembering the first time she’d walked into the room, excitement zapping every nerve ending in her body as she realized she’d finally found steady acting work and would no longer have to wait tables or live in that crummy apartment of hers. She’d given a decade of her life to this job.

  She grabbed her coat, slinging it over her shoulder Sinatra style, and walked out of the studio. The usual cluster of fans was there to greet her. As she always did, she stopped to talk to them. She felt guilty that she knew what was in store for her character when they didn’t.

  She waved good-bye, turned the corner, and stopped. What now? She looked up; the sun was shining, its rays reflecting off the smooth glass of surrounding skyscrapers. The lump in her throat was growing bigger. She was all alone now, aching for comfort. She fumbled for her cell, impulsively calling Eric’s home number. Given the slump he’d been in, he’d understand her pain. She got his answering machine; the message said he was playing out of town and gave his cell phone number in case of emergency. Was this an emergency? Not yet, Monica thought, as she resumed walking. But it could be.

  The next day, letting herself into Monty’s apartment, Monica was pleased to see it was relatively clean. Monty had either hired Rosa back or found someone else. She went to the kitchen and put away the basics she always brought for him—bread, milk, fruit, soup, tuna—before padding to his bedroom, always aware he might be asleep. He was sitting up in his recliner in his smoking jacket and pajamas, puffing on a cigar.

  Monica choked, waving away the awful smoke. “What the hell are you doing? The doctor told you not to smoke.”

  “The doctor can kiss my bony white ass,” Monty replied, his deeply lined face relaxed with pleasure as he puffed away on the stogie still clenched between his teeth.

  Monica plucked it from his mouth, eliciting a loud gasp from her mentor.

  She snuffed out the stinky cigar in the crystal ashtray on Monty’s dresser and threw open the window.

  “Honestly, Monty. What gives?”

  “What gives is that the Grim Reaper will no doubt be coming to collect me sooner rather than later, so I may as well do what I damn well please.”

  Monica rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ, between you and Gloria, I’ve got more morbidity than I can take.”

  Interest flickered in Monty’s bright blue eyes. “So the fat-assed wench is feeling the icy grip of imminent death as well, eh?”

  “She’s not fat-assed, as you well know. She’s managed to maintain her figure.”

  “Girdles are a miraculous thing.”

  “She was asking about you, you know,” said Monica, ignoring the jibe.

  “Did she want to know if I was dead yet?”

  “Enough with death!” Monica railed. “I swear, you’re going to make me more depressed than I already am.”

  “And why is my star pupil depressed?” Monty murmured with concern.

  Monica felt her lower lip quivering. “I was written off the show. My character was killed by a zombie priest.”

  “Mmm.” Monty looked out the window into the middle distance, his expression unreadable. Monica thought maybe he’d rise creakily from his recliner to put a consoling arm around her shoulder or at least proffer words of wisdom, the way Gloria did. Instead, he turned to her after a considerable length of silence and said, “You’ll still be able to help me out with the rent, won’t you?”

  Monica jerked back slightly, as if shoved by an unseen hand. No comfort. No advice. Just selfishness.

  “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  Monty quickly began to backpedal. “Well, of course I’m sorry you lost your job, though it could be a blessing in disguise, since the genre is so tawdry. But—”

  “But all you care about is yourself.” Monica gaped at him. “Is that all I am to you? A goddamn bank on two legs?”

  Monty looked panicked. “Of course not, of course not. Monica, darling, I didn’t mean to upset you. Please sit down.”

  “Forget it.” Tears of humiliation were threatening to erupt. “All these years, I’ve worshipped you. Helped you get by. Treated your opinions about the acting profession as the word of God passed down from on high. And what for?” Monica clutched her head in disbelief. “You don’t give a shit about me. All you give a shit about is that I help pay your rent.” She poked his shoulder. “Well, you know what, Monty? You can find some other former student of yours to pay your bills and hang breathlessly on your pronouncements about art and talent and selling out. This jackass has seen the light. I should have listened to Gloria a long time ago.”

  “Monica!” Monty called after her as she stomped out of his bedroom. “Monica, darling, please wait!”

  “Kiss my bony white ass, Monty!” she yelled back to him, slamming his front door. Slamming doors was very satisfying, she found. She loved when she got to do it on the show, and it was even better in real life. It was drama without words.

  Out in the hallway she realized her chest was heaving. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Panic-driven insecurity invaded her body, seeping through her skin, twining itself around her bones, burrowing itself into her heart. The only person she wanted to talk to right now was Eric. It was irrational, perhaps even cruel, to call him. She didn’t care. She dialed his cell.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Eric turned to look at Jason, standing in the doorway of his hotel room. The Blades had played two of their four games scheduled for the West Coast, winning bot
h. They were on a streak. All the players were convinced it was because of cardboard Monica, whom they’d managed to transport intact across the country. Her presence was beginning to disturb and depress Eric, even though he, too, was now convinced it really did exert some kind of mystical pull that was causing them to win.

  Eric turned back to his suitcase. “I’m packing to go back to New York.”

  Jason came to stand beside him. “Eric, we have a game tonight.”

  “I know that. And I’m flying out right after it. Red-eye. Don’t worry. I got the okay from Ty. I’ll be back in time for Friday night’s game.”

  Jason sat down on the bed, watching his brother carefully. “Did someone break into your apartment or something?”

  “No.” Eric zipped up his suitcase, pinning a note to it to remind himself to bring it to the arena tonight so he could leave from there after the game against Anaheim. He’d already booked a car to take him directly to the airport.

  “Time to share with your brother,” Jason cajoled.

  “Monica.”

  She’d left a message on his cell phone so choked with tears he could barely make out what she was saying. When he’d called her back, she picked up the phone on the first ring and burst into tears, telling him the show had let her go. He calmed her as best he could, instinctively offering to fly back so they could talk about it face-to-face. Monica hesitated, then said, “Please, yes, come. I can’t believe you’d do this for me,” she managed to choke out over the phone.

  “Yes, you can,” Eric replied softly before telling her to sit tight, that he’d be there as soon as he could.

  There was no question in his mind he was doing the right thing. She needed him; he’d be there; it was that simple. If it made him a chump, so be it. He’d deal with that later. For now, all he knew was that the woman he loved was in pain, and it was him she wanted to pour her guts out to. Nothing else mattered.