Soap Opera Slaughters

by Marvin Kaye

  “I used to work for one.”

  “Ah.” He gestured toward the stacks of books I’d recently passed. “I donated all those. You can save your time looking, they’re all worthless.”

  “So you’re a collector, then?”

  “I run a secondhand bookshop.” He fished in his pocket and produced a business card, which he handed to me. His address was on Montague Street in “the Heights,” a ten-minute walk from Florence’s apartment. According to the card, the shop was only open three evenings a week.

  “Strictly a hobby,” he explained. “Drop in sometime, if you’re in the neighborhood.”

  “Thanks. Maybe I will.” I was half-inclined to ask him whether he might have one or two of Hilary’s book wants, but Lara was getting fidgety, so I put the card in my pocket.

  “DB,” Lara asked, putting her arm through mine, an action which he noted with benign amusement, “what’s holding things up? Shouldn’t they be about finished with the supper club scene?”

  “Well, they had to run and get a ladder and raise the chandelier,” Bannister explained. “That new boy they got to play Todd hit his head against it when he came in, he’s so tall”

  “Poor Harry,” I murmured, “what a pity.”

  Counting all the actors and crew members, there must have been nearly thirty people in the vicinity of the cameras. The technicians were moving around so much I couldn’t get a fix on them all, but there were at least ten. The extras mostly were gathered on the sidelines in one self-protective clump. A beefy young man in the inevitable bluejeans stood on a ladder fiddling with the chandelier, calling directions to someone I couldn’t see.

  Practically underneath the fixture was my old rival, “poor Harry,” as tall and slim and curly-haired as ever. Except for the man on the ladder, he was alone on the supper club set.

  “That stocky fellow in the plaid shirt,” Lara informed me, pointing to a fiftyish man near one of the cameras, “is Mack Joel, our assistant director.”

  “Where’s the director?”

  “In the control room. He watches all the shots on monitors and punches up what actually goes on the tape. Mack keeps us in line. Sometimes he’s referred to as the floor director.”

  Just then, the technician on the ladder shouted to his invisible assistant and the chandelier rose several inches further in the air. Its new height was tested and marked, the man dismounted and removed the ladder, and the cast streamed back onto the set Extras in evening wear sat at restaurant tables, actors dressed as waiters took up posts around the room. VeldaLee Boyce, pregnant once more, stood by the cash register while “brother” Matt (Ira Powell) joined her and Harry exited.

  Mack, the floor director, repositioned one of the waiters, then the booms moved closer and another crew member with a cigarette stub in his flabby lips extended a clapstick in front of one camera.

  “All right,” Mack said, “this is tape. Nine...eight...seven...six...five...quiet...four...three...two...He gestured. The clapstick closed.

  Animation. Like wax figures touched by a magic wand, the performers unfroze. Tinkling of glasses. Music. The Jennett supper club came to life as waiters took orders, poured wine, served food, bustled busily in and out of the place where the kitchen was supposed to be, carrying trays laden with cold, unappetizing food that the extras ate with seeming savor.

  Watching the artificial scene with its boundaries and substitutes for truth, I felt a disproportionate disillusionment, even though I know magic looks lousy if you’re standing behind the conjurer.

  And now Dr. Matt Powell was called away from talking with his sister Bella Royce to take a phone call from his nurse, but I couldn’t hear either of the Jennett siblings, Ira or VeldaLee, there was no Volume knob I could fiddle with. Then Todd Harry Whelan Jennett entered through a pine-and-canvas door flat and I could hear his lines perfectly.

  The director stopped the scene and called Harry aside.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked Lara.

  “One of the first things a theatre actor learns on a soap is not to project, it overloads the mikes. You have to say your lines in a natural voice.”

  “Isn’t that a bad habit for an actor to get into?”

  Lara nodded. “It eventually ruins the lazy ones. If you have any brains, you practice at home, you take classes, you do tours and summer stock just so your instrument won’t get flabby. Shh, here they go again.”

  “Let’s make this one work” the floor director said as the waiters collected plates, poured liquid back into bottles, backtracked like a film in reverse. “Alright, nine...eight...seven...six...five...quiet...four...three...two... His hand waved, the clapstick shut, the scene began again, but Mack Joel called an almost immediate halt while a makeup assistant ran to powder Bella/Velda’s.

  “I thought the idea was not to stop the tape,” I said.

  “Within reason,” Lara replied. “If she’d flubbed a line, it might be left on if the mistake wasn’t too obvious. But we romantic idols must never sweat.”

  I remarked on the absence of temperament during the proceedings, and she explained it was considered inefficient. “Temper is for nighttime television, Gene. It’s harder to get rid of a series star on primetime. Even Florence generally reserves her snits for the greenroom or Ames’ office.”

  “Speaking of the Dragon Lady, where is she?” Joanne’s phrase slipped out If Lara noticed, she didn’t make an issue of it.

  “Flo’s back there, by the hospital set.”

  “But we walked right past. I didn’t see her.”

  “She was lurking in the shadows. She and I have a short phone conversation coming at the end of the next scene. Flo likes to be totally isolated just before she performs.”

  “Shh” One of the crew gestured to us, finger to lips.

  “Places,” the assistant director said. “Nine...eight...seven...six ...five ...quiet ...

  The scene played this time without a hitch. As soon as it was over, VeldaLee emitted a victorious ululation, reached up under her skirt and yanked out a large contoured pillow, Bella’s “child.” She tossed it on the floor, jumped on it once with un-motherly contempt, then slung it under her arm, waved good day to everyone and exited with the extras. The cameras lumbered behind them on their way to the hospital set. As one rolled by, I noticed a copy of the shooting schedule taped to its side. It broke down the next scene into two parts.

  IV-A HOSPITAL/corridor Matt, Nurse

  IV-B HOSPITAL/E’s room Matt, Eloise

  We started in the direction of the general exodus, but hearing a voice behind me hail my name, I turned and saw Harry loping toward us, surprise all over his.

  “He-ey, Gene,” he said, “what are you doing here? Back with Hilary? Last time I heard, you were stuck in Philly.”

  “Last time I heard, Harry, you were stuck at Hilary’s.”

  Placing one hand on my shoulder, Harry addressed me with uncharacteristic earnestness. “Man, don’t you know how crazy she is about you? Why in hell did you leave that stupid message on her machine? She—”

  “Pardon me,” Lara interrupted coolly. “You’ll find me down the aisle, Gene.”

  As she strode off, Harry stared at her, puzzled.

  “What’s eating her?”

  “Nothing that your sense of timing can’t aggravate.”

  He squinted, trying to understand. Then it hit him. “You’re kidding.”

  “Why? You want Lara, too?”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you? Hilary never had any real interest in me. We’re friends, that’s all.”

  “I’ve got a different recollection of ancient history,” I said. “Like a trip the two of you took to Washington.”

  “That was strictly business!”

  “So you say. And speaking of business, how about these past six months you’ve been spending in my job?”

  “Hey, look, you were no longer with her when Hilary offered it to me. After the two of you made up, she only let me stay on till I could find an a
cting job. Don’t you know she wanted me out and you back in?”

  “That’s what she kept telling me, Harry. But once you left, she didn’t rush to call me. She didn’t call me at all.”

  He shrugged. “She was on the road last week with Lara, taking her to soap festivals.”

  “In all that time, she couldn’t have telephoned?”

  “What do you care?” he retorted. “You’ve got Lara now.”

  He turned his back on me and stalked off.

  Scene TV-A.

  Joanne was in bed in her private room at Riverday General the same set I’d seen earlier on the Colson-Ames office monitor. Adjacent to the hospital corridor set, its door actually opened into that “hall,” where Ira Powell, still bleary, ran through Matt’s dialogue with a middle-age character actress who played the nurse who telephoned Matt because Eloise Savage demanded his personal attention.

  Lara stood in the aisle with me, her arm through mine, presumably for Joanne’s benefit, though it didn’t temper the smile I got from the redhead. Joanne’s copper tresses had been combed out perfectly by Umberto, and she sat in bed looking lovelier than any hospital patient I’d ever seen anywhere but on a movie screen. She toyed idly with the premeasured plastic tumbler I’d seen Props place on her nightstand earlier.

  “Okay, Matt,” the floor director said, “continue on into her bedroom.”

  With a weary nod, Powell opened the connecting door. The nurse went off down the corridor. Only two of the cameras had been trained on them. The third was already aimed at the bed, but as Powell entered, it panned and backtracked to widen the shot and include him. As he and Joanne ran their lines (inaudibly, of course), another camera moved into position so the absentee director in the control room would have another angle to choose from. Lara and I took a few steps to the left to get out of the camera’s way.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, the actor picked up the cup and medicine bottle, leaning close to Joanne in the process. She shrank back against her pillows.

  “Eloise,” the director called, “you’re supposed to put your arms around him, remember?”

  “Mackie,” Joanne protested, “you try it.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Powell growled, shoving himself off the bed. “What are you trying to pull on me?”

  Not waiting for an answer, the actor stamped over to Mack to complain. Joanneed off the covers, stuck her feet in slippers, grabbed a robe and hurried over to argue with the two men. The angry colloquy didn’t last long. She returned to the bed, Powell sat back down on the edge and picked up the bottle and plastic medicine measurer again. They continued the scene from where they’d left off, but I noticed the director allowed Joanne to dispense with the hug.

  Powell poured the “medicine,” spilling a few drops as his hand shook, whether from malaise or anger or both I couldn’t tell. He handed the cup to Joanne. She swallowed the liquid, made a face, spoke her next line, and waited.

  And waited.

  Because Powell was facing away from the electronic prompter, it was awkward for him to turn around and look at it. He solved the problem by getting up and pacing pensively with his back to the bed.

  “Matt,” Mack said with strained patience, “you can’t do that during the take, she’ll still have her arms around you.”

  “I know” Powell growled. “The bitch broke my concentration.”

  The director took a deep breath, but held his tongue. Never rattle an actor who’s already coming unhinged.

  The scene jerked fitfully to its conclusion, Powell forgetting one or two more lines before it did. The end was typical Eloise Savage: faking an attack of her pretended illness so Matt could fuss over her, calling in the nurse, cradling Eloise’s thin body, comforting her as she smiled furtively over his shoulder for the benefit of the camera that dollied in for an extreme closeup before the image faded.

  The director called a five-minute break while Powell skulked off set. He returned shortly afterwards in a new shirt, his looking red and scrubbed.

  “Okay, people, we’re losing too much time,” Mack complained. “How about skipping dress and going right to tape?”

  “Yes,” Joanne said, “please. I’m getting a headache.”

  The director pointed at Joanne and a makeup assistant hurried over and patted her forehead with a powder puff. Her looked a bit flushed.

  “Why not first make her wear a mask?’ a venomous voice sneered behind me. Swiveling, I saw Florence McKinley dressed and made up to look like sweet Mother Jennett. But Martha never would stare such daggers at anyone.

  “Places,” said the director.

  Scene W-B.

  Dr. Matt Jennett entered his patient’s room and gently chided her. Eloise lay back on her pillow, cheeks reddening at the prospect of a quiet moment with the one man she really wanted. Matt sat down beside her, and his mere presence seemed to make her scant of breath. Opening the medicine bottle, he poured the proper amount into a new, clean measuring cup the size and shape of a whisky shot glass. Eloise used the opportunity of his proximity to put her arms around him and rest her head on his shoulder.

  Matt put the bottle back on the nightstand and held out the plastic cup, but she wouldn’t leave his shoulder.

  The prompter froze in place. The dialogue didn’t creep upward.

  Matt

  WILL YOU TAKE YOUR MEDICINE NOW FOR ME?

  Eloise

  OF COURSE. I TRUST YOU, MATT.

  Her lips didn’t move. Impatiently, Matt nudged her off his shoulder and tried to give her the dose, but she fell back against her pillow only to start up again, as if seized by a sudden cramp.

  “She jumped the cue,” Lara whispered in my ear. There’s a lot more script before Eloise fakes her attack.”

  Powell held the medicine in front of her lips, but she dashed it away with one hand and it spattered over the blankets. Her eyes were squeezed shut, as if in pain.

  The cameras kept running, capturing it all for millions of avid “Riverday” fans who would have deeply envied my ringside vantage.

  And now Ira Powell, improvising around the suddenly abridged dialogue, grasped the actress by the shoulders and shook her rather more roughly than it was in character for Dr. Matt Jennett to do.

  Joanne uttered an extremely convincing moan.

  Lara and I exchanged a worried glance. And I snapped.

  Releasing myself from Lara, who still was holding my arm, I dashed onto the set, elbowed Powell aside and took Joanne in my arms, feeling the fever in her body even as the phrase, “Galahad in galoshes,” popped into my mind. Damn Hilary!

  “CUT!” Mack Joel howled at the top of his directorial lungs. THROW THAT STUPID LUNATIC OUT OF THE STUDIO!

  LARA HURRIED TO MY side. Eyes wide, cheeks pale, she was clearly in a panic. “Polyclinic’s only a few blocks away, Gene. Shall I call a limo?”

  “First things first,” I said, feeling Joanne shiver in my arms. “Yank the covers free so I can wrap her up warm.”

  “Wait, I saw a blanket—” She rushed off before I could stop her. I put my lips close to Joanne’s ear and asked in a low voice whether the medicine tasted wrong to her.

  “Yes,” she whispered. Another spasm lanced through her. Joanne breathed rapidly for a time before she was able to continue. Thought it was my imagination at first,” she panted.

  “Booze.”

  “I think so.” She shook her head jerkily. “No, I know so.”

  Quite a crowd was gathering around us. Mack took off his headphones and shoved his way through. Others mobbed behind him.

  “Oh, Christ!” the director exclaimed. “She’s really sick.”

  “Push those people back,” I told him. “Give her some air!”

  Authority figures are great to have around during emergencies. Mack immediately responded, barking commands at the gawkers to clear the aisle. Just then, I noticed Harry in the knot of onlookers. It surprised me how glad I was to see him.

  “Harry, I need
help.”

  He hurried over. At the same time, Lara returned with a thick tan quilt. I took it, wrapped Joanne up and asked Harry if he thought he could manage to carry her to her dressing room.

  He nodded as he carefully picked her up. Joanne seemed so small in the arms of the tall actor, her head cradled against his shoulder, that she looked like a sick child being comforted by her daddy.

  As he departed, I asked Lara where the nearest phone was.

  “The business office,” she said. “Come on. I’ll take you the shortest way.”

  I followed her down the aisle. As we sped along, I wondered what had become of Florence. She was nowhere in the crowd.

  Lara led me up an iron stairway similar to the one we’d entered by. As we emerged on the second floor of WBS, it suddenly struck me that I didn’t know Manny Melnick’s number. My intention had been to put Lara on one phone to call either a studio limo or an ambulance while I rang up Joanne’s druggist friend for emergency advice, since I wasn’t sure whether she should be moved or not. But I realized that I had no notion what his number was, let alone the name of his pharmacy.

  Lara took me through a door marked FIRE STAIRS. I told her she’d better go on up to Joanne’s dressing room and bring the purse on the bureau to me in the office.

  She didn’t waste time asking why. We climbed up a flight together, then parted company. Lara continued to ascend.

  Hilary Quayle, hands on hips, was frowning at the studio monitor when I barged into the room. Micki Lipscomb stood near her, also looking puzzled.

  “What’s happening on the set, Gene?” Hilary asked. “Why are they all standing around?”

  “Joanne Carpenter’s been poisoned.”

  “Omigod! the producer’s assistant exclaimed. Micki’s lips compressed, making her nose look even bigger. “Does Ames know?”

  I didn’t dignify the question with a reply, but instead told her to ring up 911 or WBS Security, whichever was faster, and arrange transportation for Joanne to Polyclinic, just in case. Squaring her oversized shoulders, she took a deep breath, but I didn’t wait for a “Who-the-hell-are-you-to-give-me-orders?” speech. I closed Lipscomb’s hand around the nearest phone and told her to dial. She hesitated one argumentative second, then turned her back on me and spun the dial three times. I figured she’d pick Security. An ambulance call might tip off the press. The police, for sure.