by Curt Colbert
Begrudgingly, Skippy took a seat at the table. Mel waltzed over and poured Skippy coffee, then danced back to the stove.
“What’s this all about?” Skippy demanded.
“All about you, sport,” Mel bowed deferentially. “Your Eminence,” he crowed.
“Stop clowning! Stop it this minute. Can’t you see I’m out of sorts?” Skippy waved an arm at Lana. “You’re the last person on the planet I care to see right now. What are you doing here anyway? I didn’t invite you.” He shot a furious glance at Mel.
Through the rudeness, Lana said, “Don’t you want to hear the news, honeybunch?”
“Hey, don’t call me that. I’m your gravy train. Why don’t you just call me Gravy Train. Anyway, I’ve already heard the news from Henry Chow,” barked Skippy. “I know he’s got the part.”
A prickly grin crossed Lana’s face and for a moment Skippy thought that Lana Lanai might actually possess nerve endings. Still, when she picked up her coffee cup, watching Skippy over the brim, he didn’t like the expression on her face.
Draining the bacon grease, Mel sang, “Tell-l-l him-m-m, La-an-a-a.”
“You got the part.”
Skippy stared, not daring to believe his ears. Lana scooted over and embraced him. She may as well have embraced a cigar store Indian.
Mel sang, “Skippy Smather-r-r-s starrrrring in… . Standing Ta-a-all.”
Skippy stammered, “Is… is it… is it for real?”
“Hey, would we pull your leg?” Mel grinned devilishly.
Lana purred, “It’s not exactly on the dotted line yet, but I spoke with a production assistant this morning who overheard the producers talking. They were discussing you, raving about your great talent, your charisma, your magical screen qualities, your b.o.a.”
Box office appeal.
Skippy batted his hand at her. “I know, I know, I know.” She didn’t have to dote. He despised doting.
Mel arranged breakfast on the table, climbed into his chair, and said, “Hey, I’ll bet they didn’t even notice. I mean, about the growing spurt.”
Skippy felt his stomach churn. He jumped off his chair and fled.
The following afternoon, in Lana Lanai’s Hollywood office, the star paced anxiously. His walking cane made dull thudding sounds against the plush carpet. Mel sat on a long couch leafing through Vanity Fair, trying to ignore Skippy’s irritating third footfall. You’d think by now he’d have learned how to walk with that stupid cane. Across the room at the desk, Herself held court.
Two slick-buff film producers leaned over Lana’s chaotic desktop, their Mont Blancs poised over contracts. Mel wanted to snicker out loud. They were all alike, diminishing youth, Bosley hairlines, faceless personas consumed with star envy, converting their filthy riches into control—power—over the gifted artist. Exploiting the artist. Growing rich off the artist’s sweat, the artist’s inherent talents. Sure, they’d invest in a dwarf’s box office appeal, but would they take him out to dinner? Anyway, who remembers a producer’s name in the credits? It was all Mel could do to contain his loathing.
Skippy limped over to Lana, stood on tiptoe, and whispered into her jaded ear. Lana nodded tiredly and waved him away.
Skippy retreated. Lana smiled antiseptically at the producers.
“There’s just one more detail,” she said. “The understudy is to be Mel Rose. That is, should anything happen to Skippy. Which is totally a nonissue.”
The men with remarkable hair glanced up in unison, and in unison they said, “We don’t have understudies.”
“In this case, you’ll have Mel Rose. Or no Skippy Smathers.”
The producers gaped. One said to Lana, “You’re kidding,” and Mel heard derision.
Lana snickered in a way Mel didn’t like. “Otherwise, gentlemen, Skippy won’t sign.”
The producers huddled, conferring in earnest whispers. Finally, one said to Lana, “We’d counted on Henry Chow. If anything happened to our star, we’d made Chow our second choice. Everyone’s seen it that way. Skippy or Henry in the lead. Of course, we might find a bit role for Rose.”
Lana shook her head and studied her acrylic nails.
“Consider our position,” argued one producer. “We need really, really great talent in this role. We need a really, really brilliant actor.”
Mel really, really hated them.
Lana didn’t budge. “It’s Mel or no deal.”
Eventually Lana got her way. She usually did. She knew how. When all the contracts had been revised and initialed and signed, all the insincere handshakes wrung, Lana flung open her office doors to the entertainment media. Bee swarms made less commotion. The Hollywood press doted over Skippy. Fawned over him. Even the producers pawed Skippy now, and Mel noticed one of them pawing Lana. Totally ignored, Mel buried his face in the Vanity Fair and waited for it all to blow over.
On the way to the airport, in Lana’s limo, Skippy and Mel were sharing a split of champagne when Mel heard Skippy mutter, “God, I’m terrified.”
“He’s not that bad,” replied Mel, referring to the limo driver.
“I mean something else. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”
Mel said, “Lord help us, what now?”
“My limp. Getting worse all the time.”
“Translation, please.” Mel rolled extra brut around in his mouth.
“I’m still growing. I’ve completely outgrown my cane.”
“Tsk. Then buy another,” retorted an exasperated Mel. “Better still, give it up. It’s so phony.”
“You still don’t believe me.” Darkly.
“Hey, Skipper, would you just quit all this obsessing? You got the role, didn’t you? If you want to worry about something then worry about the first day of shooting. There’s something to obsess over.”
Skippy stared out the window. “I went to see a doctor.
About the growing.”
“And?”
“Got as far as the reception desk and panicked. Ran out of there.”
“Good Lord have mercy.”
“What if they notice?”
“I’m telling you, it’s not that noticeable yet. You’ve still got some time before it’ll really stand out.”
“Then you have noticed it.”
Mel sighed. “Maybe a little. But it’s too slight to get worked up over. Hey, sport, settle down. Look out there. That’s Hollywood, baby, and it’s all yours.”
The thorny subject was not raised again until the first week of shooting, when Skippy came home for a visit, limping up the drive. As usual, Mel was lounging on the chaise reading Variety. When Skippy got close enough, Mel saw the deep frown. He put down the magazine and went to fetch Skippy’s luggage.
Mel grabbed the suitcase out of Skippy’s limp hand. “Now what?”
Skippy leaned hard on his cane. “They’ve got the Little People’s Chorus in the scene we shot today? You know Ruby Lee, the lead singer? I ran into Ruby on the set and she commented on how I seem different since she last saw me. I asked, ‘Different how?’ Ruby Lee said I looked taller. Then this afternoon Lana visited the set. Said she’d noticed I was growing. Just like Ruby Lee. Lana said if I didn’t stop growing, the producers would drop me. I don’t know if the director—”
“Autry noticed it too.”
Skippy missed that it wasn’t a question but a statement. He said, “According to Lana, Autry told her they can’t be remaking costumes every five minutes, and besides, he said, an overgrown dwarf’s no good to anyone. Lana says that includes her. Those were her exact words. Then, in a flash, I had this vision of my future. They notice me growing even taller. They drop me from the film. I can’t get work. No one wants me anymore. All along, they only wanted me for my size. Lana’s right. No one will hire an overgrown dwarf. Not in this business. I’m through, Mel. My career is finished.”
Mel put a hand on Skippy’s shoulder and said, “Lana called about ten minutes ago. I’m afraid she had some very bad news.”
; Skippy turned pale. “Autry?”
Mel nodded gravely. “There was an escape clause. Something about a change in your appearance being grounds for nullifying the contract.” Mel sighed.
Skippy began sobbing.
Mel said, ”What you need, sport, is a cocktail. Now, come on inside, let me fix you a daiquiri. And if it’s any comfort, we already have enough stashed away for retirement. The world is not coming to an end.”
Skippy turned and ran out of the driveway. He ran all the way to Joy’s house. Joy met him in the front yard. A hose in Joy’s hand sprayed water on her geranium bed. Joy’s long feet were bare and her hair had new extensions. She leaned down and kissed Skippy’s cheek, and the first thing she said was, “Skips, are you wearing those platform shoes again?”
“What makes you say that?”
Joy wrinkled her nose, looked him up and down. “You seem taller.” She stood beside him and compared Skippy’s height to hers. “Yep,” she declared finally. “You’re growing, Skips.”
Skippy cursed and, pushing Joy aside, stormed into her house, raided the liquor cabinet, and locked the gin and himself in her bedroom. Joy heard the door slam and the lock snap into place.
At 10 p.m., Joy finally managed to convince Skippy through the barricades that under no circumstances would she spend the night on her own living room couch. Skippy unlocked the door. Once inside, Joy cleverly displayed her still-considerable charms and Skippy soon succumbed. Just for old time’s sake. Around midnight, loud voices in the foyer interrupted them. Joy lit a cigarette and said, “Amy’s got a new tattoo.”
“So?”
Joy drew on the cigarette, watched it burn. “It’s on her tush,” she murmured, but Skippy wasn’t listening. His bright eyes darted in the semidarkness, faster and faster, until Joy quipped, “Skips, you’re plotting again. I can tell.”
That night, Skippy Smathers hung himself from the chandelier in his bedroom.
VI
On opening night, Mel the Diminutive Man played the lead in Standing Tall, played it deftly, with brilliance and flair. Critics praised Mel’s grace in the face of losing his friend, Mel’s courage in walking the Great White Way for Skippy Smathers. In the wink of an eye and at long last, Mel’s star skyrocketed.
He was in the backseat of a limo, coming home from the airport. He was alone because, besides the late Skippy Smathers, he didn’t have any friends. Not the kind you’d want to be seen with in public anyway, with all the Hollywood kleig lights on full blast. Mel was drinking the whole split by himself and basking in his celebrity when suddenly, for no reason at all, he thought of Skippy’s walking cane.
The house in God’s Chosen Neighborhood seemed inadequate, pathetic, really, no place for a meteoric star like Mel. At long last he would move to L.A. Maybe snap up that cool house he’d always coveted on Mulholland Drive. The orchids would love it.
The limo’s headlights washed the patio. A car was parked in the driveway. Mel paid off the limo service and walked up the drive. Joy Smathers greeted him.
Joy was lounging on the patio chaise, reading a newspaper. When she saw Mel, she looked up and smiled. “Mel, you’re home. I’ve been waiting for you.” Joy stood up, folded the newspaper, and tucked it neatly under her arm.
Mel stared.
Joy’s smile twitched. “Why, Mel, aren’t you glad to see me?”
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“I wanted you to know.”
“What? Know what?”
“I figured out how you whittled Skippy’s walking cane down little by little. To make him think he was growing. When all the time his cane was getting shorter. It fooled everyone. Even me. You figured that sooner or later, what with Skippy’s fragile psyche, it would drive him over the edge. Sooner or later Skippy would despair, maybe commit suicide. That was your plan, wasn’t it, Mel?”
“What are you… ?”
As if suddenly inspired, Joy blurted, “Did you know that Captain Vancouver named Magnolia Bluff erroneously?”
Mel shook his head.
“Aren’t you curious why he did?”
“No.”
Ignoring him, Joy explained: “Captain Vancouver discovered this part of the world, you know. And he hated everything about it. Hated the rain and the fog and the Indians… I’ll bet he hated dwarfs too.”
“Make your point.”
“Because Captain Vancouver mistook the bluff’s madrona trees for magnolia trees.” Joy broke into a wide smile. “It all comes down to wood, doesn’t it, Mel?”
Mel placed a hand to his forehead.
“This might interest the media,” said Joy. “Or the gossip columnists. I mean, about these cherrywood shavings I found in your orchid plants. Oh, I almost forgot to mention…”
“Can it, Joy.”
Joy shuffled around, a tap dancer at heart, then froze. “To be frank, Mel, it mortifies me to catch you doing something so despicable.”
Sweat bathed Mel’s brow.
Joy said, “See, I took the rubber cup off the bottom of Skippy’s cane. And I saw. It’s locked up in a safe place now. I mean Skips’s cane. Or what’s left of it. See, I figured out what happened underneath that little rubber cup—”
Mel came at Joy, but swift Joy produced another talisman that drew him up short: the Seattle Times, tomorrow’s early edition. Joy had folded the front page to emphasize a small headline: Second Autopsy Reveals Star Dwarf Smathers Was Growing.
Skippy’s photograph accompanied the story.
Joy touched Mel’s sleeve. Lightly, to fix attention on what she was going to say. From her regular-sized heart.
“If only you’d been patient, Mel. If only you hadn’t whittled down his cane. See, I talked to Skippy’s doctor and figured it all out. You didn’t believe him, but something had gone wacky with his pituitary gland. It sometimes happens to a dwarf, you know. So the tightrope had already been greased.” Joy smiled ever so gently. “You didn’t need to push him.” Joy stretched to her full height, reached down, and plucked Mel’s house keys from his trembling hand.
“Come,” said the woman in control of Mel’s destiny, “let’s go indoors and decide on a price for this sweet little Dahl house. I think we should put an offer on the Pierce-Arrow estate, don’t you?”
SHERLOCK’S OPERA
BY LOU KEMP
Waterfront
It was a quixotic message carved into the side of one of his cows that drew Sherlock Holmes from his farm in Sussex, England to Seattle. The cow tended to move during the carving, so I had removed its head. The carving read: Jacob Moriarity.
I’d rigged the cow to explode upon examination, but having faith in Mr. Holmes, I knew he’d not only survive, but would eventually dissect the cow to find a somewhat wet edition of the Seattle Daily News.
Of the several newsagents I had perused in America, the Seattle Daily News possessed the most colorful attention to lurid details.
Within the pages there appeared pictures of bewildered policemen and well-to-do couples dressed in morbidity and curiosity. The over-bright exposures of the corpses provided a nice touch. Given both the allusions to the supernatural and the country’s fascination with Ouija boards and charlatans, I thought the piece more than worthy.
Confederate Colonel Seeks Revenge!
Seattle police are urging the good citizens of the city to stay indoors after dark. A killer, with a more voracious appetite than this writer’s Aunt Cecile, has been dining, quite literally, on the citizens of Seattle. No one is saying so officially, but several witnesses report seeing a ghostly figure, dressed in full Confederate uniform, fleeing the alleyway behind John McMaster’s store on Oak. A partly devoured body was found there the next morning by Oliver Prindle in his disreputable milk wagon. On the evening of February 4, a similar occurrence was reported, nearly a mile away on 1st Street behind the livery stables. Again, the Confederate ghost was observed hiding like a dog in the shadows. The body found there wasn’t whole either; it was missing both leg
s! From what your trusty reporter has discovered, similar murders occurred earlier in the year. But we, The Public, were not informed of these heinous crimes by our city policemen.
What do you suppose Mr. Sherlock Holmes did after drying off the article and reading it? I imagine he clamped his teeth around his pipe stem, nearly biting it in two. Coarse language would have been on the tip of his tongue, but being the Victorian gentleman, I assume he refrained. The name Moriarity was enough to ruin his digestion for days. Not to mention the cow’s.
But to business. Within a day, he would have used his dunces at Scotland Yard to gather information on the Seattle killings. He would have heard of the useless efforts to catch the killer. How many policemen would enjoy chasing fanatical ghosts? One in ten? Three in fifty?
Certainly within the next two days he assembled various disguises, acquired a quantity of cocaine for the road, and headed off to the docks in Liverpool. Once there, he would have boarded a ship bound for New York. He doubtless inquired about recent departures for America, and then spent an inordinate amount of time in his cabin pouring over the manifests of other ships. He also would have brought along all his files on John Moriarity, his arch enemy. To be sure: in some dark and filthy corner of his mind he could admit to himself his crimes! He had pushed my brother over the Reichenbach Falls to his death (it was not suicide, Mr. Holmes!).
The celebrated sleuth would then have turned his attention to the other family members.
Would there be a photograph of me? Perhaps the American authorities in Boston (that hellhole) could find one. But the best likeness could be found in Moriarity’s effects, if Sherlock Holmes cared to investigate. He would hear of my early genius (a doctor by the age of twenty) and the jealous comments concerning my experiments. The mystery of my public disappearance should tantalize him like the scent of an unseen wisp of tobacco.
Finally, on a stormy day in March 1889, the afternoon train steamed into the station on Railroad Avenue, bearing confidence men, Bible-thumping preachers, prostitutes, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
