The Actor's Guide To Greed

by Rick Copp

  “They’re going to conduct an autopsy. The police will find out how Claire died soon enough.”

  “No, I mean the reviews,” Wallace said. “They’re so vicious, so mean-spirited.”

  How silly of me to assume Wallace was devastated over Claire’s death and not over the universal pan of his first theatrical effort.

  “I don’t know, Wallace.”

  “It’s like they saw a different play. I thought it went pretty good . . . Well, except for Claire dying and all. Katrina thinks we should file a lawsuit against the critics for gross misconduct—”

  I hung up. I couldn’t help myself. Wallace was a reminder of the rampant self-absorption in show business, and I simply couldn’t handle it at the moment. I would call back later and apologize, say we were somehow disconnected. But now was not the time to commiserate over some lousy reviews.

  I ordered up a roast beef sandwich from room service, unplugged the phone, took a long, hot bath, and then curled up in bed and slept for what felt like days. By the time I was ready to face the world again, I received a note to report to the theater. Some decisions had been made.

  I dressed quickly and headed out the door. I passed the newsstand and stopped suddenly. The London Times was reporting on its front page that Claire Richards’s death had been caused by a massive stroke. So it wasn’t a murder. I felt a wave of relief wash over me. During the two days I had stayed in my room sleeping off the past month of stress and nervous tension, I had a series of unsettling dreams that someone in the cast was a murderer and that I would eventually be the killer’s target. This wasn’t so farfetched, considering my history. I had played amateur detective on several homicide cases, much to the chagrin of Charlie. But at least this time it was a death from natural causes. I bought the paper to absorb more of the details as I headed toward the Apollo Theatre on Shaftsbury. The autopsy appeared to be very conclusive. It didn’t make losing Claire any easier. Funeral services were being arranged. More stars were commenting on their absolute shock and devastation over their fellow artist’s demise.

  I entered the Apollo through the backstage entrance. It was eerily quiet. No one was milling about. There were no lights on. I looked at the note slipped under my door and noticed I had misread the time of the cast call. It was nine-thirty, not nine o’clock. Now I had a half hour to kill before everyone else arrived for the meeting. I lumbered down the hallway to my dressing room when I heard some rustling. At first I thought it might be Sir Anthony entertaining yet another one of his young male acting students with a swimmer’s build from the Royal Academy, but his door was shut. The commotion was coming from inside Claire’s dressing room next door. I debated on whether I should just ignore whoever it was and use my time to call home and check in with Charlie. But my curiosity, as usual, got the best of me. I quietly tiptoed over to the door, which was open. Pushing it open, I saw a figure in a leather jacket and jeans and wearing a red ski mask rifling through Claire’s belongings.

  Every instinct told me to run. It’s never a good idea to confront a thief. I had guest-starred on too many detective shows where someone stupidly calls attention to themselves by saying something like, “What are you doing here?” panicking the bad guy and then getting knocked out or something. Anyone with half a brain would just get the hell out of there.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  Surprised, the red-masked thief bolted upright and stared at me. Then he rushed me, shoving his hands against my chest, knocking me over. My head hit the floor with a sickening thud. And I felt the boots of my assailant stomp over my chest as he raced out the door. Then everything went black.

  Chapter 7

  As I slowly awakened, I felt a sharp unrelenting pain in my side like someone kicking me in the ribs. As I forced my eyes open, I saw the sharp toe of a cowboy boot swinging toward me. It struck me again. Someone was kicking me in the ribs.

  “Get up,” a low, gravelly voice commanded.

  I looked up to see the scowling, flushed face of Liam Killoran. If his hardened expression weren’t so full of bile and contempt, he would have looked rather dashing in his corduroy sports jacket, white shirt open at the collar, and skintight Levi’s jeans.

  “What are you doing in Claire’s dressing room?” he said, reaching down, grabbing a fistful of my shirt, and hauling me to my feet. I stumbled, still woozy from cracking my head on the floor during my fall. My knees gave out. Instead of letting me fall, Liam grabbed me by the arms and hurled me onto Claire’s purple couch, the same one he had found the two of us draped over a few days earlier.

  “I got here early,” I said, rubbing my head and checking for blood. “I heard someone in here. I came in and this guy attacked me—”

  “I didn’t see anyone,” Liam said as he glanced around the room for any valuables that might be missing.

  “He knocked me out and then ran.”

  “You’re making this up! Tell me what you’re up to!”

  By now the rest of the company had arrived and were drawn to Liam’s booming voice echoing out of Claire’s dressing room. A small crowd quickly gathered outside the door. Minx. Sir Anthony. Akshay. Wallace. Kenneth. Everyone but Dame Sylvia, who I assumed was still at breakfast downing her seventeenth Bloody Mary.

  Kenneth stepped forward. “Liam, what’s going on here?”

  “I found Jarvis in here sprawled out on the floor. He says he caught a thief going through Claire’s things, but I don’t believe him.”

  “Okay, Liam, you caught me red-handed. I had to have something of Claire’s to remember her by, so I arrived early to loot her dressing room, but when I heard you coming, I bopped myself on the head with her Oscar to make it look like I was attacked. Kudos to you for cracking the case, Inspector Clouseau,” I said, waving him away.

  Minx giggled. “You’re so funny, Jarrod.”

  Okay, so it wasn’t a ringing endorsement, but I was in no position to turn away an ally. Even a backstabbing opportunist like Minx.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “What did this alleged thief look like?” Akshay said, unwilling to believe me for even a moment.

  “I didn’t see his face. He was wearing a red ski mask,” I said.

  Sir Anthony’s eyes brightened. “And his physique? Was it strong and imposing?”

  “I didn’t notice. It all happened so fast,” I said.

  Wallace, who had been hovering in the back of the group, couldn’t take it anymore. “Look, as long as nothing was stolen, can we get back to the task at hand? We need to discuss what we’re going to do about the show.”

  Kenneth nodded to Wallace, motioning for him to keep his cool, and then he turned to me. “Would you like to file a report with the police, Jarrod?”

  “What for?” Akshay said, folding his arms and offering me a disdainful look. “The only crime committed here was his performance last night.”

  I wanted to punch his flawless, dark-skinned, handsome face. Knowing what was inside made the outside far less attractive.

  “Jarrod’s obviously been assaulted,” Kenneth said, in a surprising show of support. “He has a right to find his assailant.”

  “No, forget it,” I said. “There’s been enough drama already. I’m just glad I showed up before he was able to take anything.”

  “Her Academy Award is missing,” Liam said, frantically searching through Claire’s dresser drawers. “She kept it behind her wardrobe partition, and it’s not here.” He pointed an accusing finger at me. “You said you didn’t see him take anything.”

  “I didn’t,” I said.

  “But you just made a joke about the thief stealing her Oscar!” he said.

  All eyes were on me.

  “It was a coincidence,” I said. “I swear he didn’t have anything in his hands when he rushed me. Maybe he had already stuffed it inside his jacket.”

  Kenneth sighed, then flipped open his cell phone. “Holly, call the police and have them send someone down to the Apollo. I’m afraid t
here’s been a robbery.”

  “I say we check Jarvis’s dressing room straight away to see if he’s got it stashed in there,” Liam said, his eyes bulging and his fists clenched.

  “What do you have against Jarrod?” Minx said. All the men, with the exception of Sir Anthony, anxiously turned and looked at her, their eyes settling happily on her flimsy silk clinging dress that could have easily passed for lingerie from Victoria’s Secret.

  “He knows,” Liam said before pushing past the company and charging out the door. There was an uncomfortable silence.

  Kenneth finally spoke up. “What did you do to him?”

  “He thinks I was sleeping with Claire.”

  The room erupted in raucous laughter. I would have been offended if I hadn’t found the notion so absurd myself.

  Kenneth raised his hand for order, and the guffaws slowly subsided. “All right, calm down, everyone. We have much to discuss.”

  Minx held her breath. This was it. Her moment of truth. Would the show go on? Would she finally have her chance in the spotlight?

  “There are a million reasons why we should shutter the show and all just go home,” Kenneth said.

  Minx let out an audible gasp. I could actually hear her entire world starting to crumble.

  “First and foremost, our leading lady has passed away. Calls are already pouring into the theater requesting refunds. It seems with Claire dead, so is audience interest.”

  I wasn’t upset in the least. This had been a trying, emotionally draining experience, and the sooner I got back to Los Angeles and home to Charlie, the happier I would be.

  “Not to mention we’ve been hit with less than kind, no, more like passionately negative reviews,” Kenneth said. “The producers want to pull the plug.”

  I thought Minx was going to faint. Sir Anthony cupped his hand underneath her elbow to keep her steady.

  I felt for Minx but was happy to be free of this thespian asylum. I was halfway out the door, anxious to return to the Savoy, pack my bags, and head straight for Heathrow.

  “However,” Kenneth said, a sly smile creeping across his face, “I have convinced them that in Claire’s honor, we should go on.”

  Minx squealed with unabashed delight before catching herself and adjusting her joy to the somberness of the circumstances.

  Wallace was ecstatic his show was given a last-minute reprieve. Akshay showed no emotion whatsoever. And Sir Anthony pinched my butt.

  “Funeral services for Claire are planned for the day after tomorrow at Westminster Abbey. It should be quite a star-studded event, not to be missed. I hear Sir Elton John might make an appearance, maybe even sing a song,” Kenneth said, completely unaware of his own astounding insensitivity. “Performances will resume on Sunday with the matinee. Minx will be taking over Claire’s role.”

  Sir Anthony raised a crooked, bony finger. “Excuse me, Kenneth. No offense to Minx’s talent, but wouldn’t it be wiser for us to drum up another big name in the role to boost box office?”

  Kenneth nodded. “We already thought of that and called every actress in town. No one wants to touch this play.”

  “It’s not the play, right?” said Wallace in a pathetic show of insecurity. “They just don’t want to have to fill Claire’s shoes. Right?”

  “Absolutely,” Kenneth lied.

  Minx stood there like a delicate, withering flower, the euphoria of her victory slowly draining away thanks to the callous words of her director. But she smiled through her pain. I felt sorry for her.

  Kenneth finally noticed Minx and cupped her face in his hands. “You’ll be great, love. Just do it as we rehearsed and the audience will adore you.”

  Kenneth’s wispy, stick-thin, and gawky young assistant, Holly, poked her head in the dressing room. “Kenneth, the police are on their way.”

  “Good. Let’s clear out of here so they can do their job when they arrive, everyone,” Kenneth said as he marched out, followed by Minx and Sir Anthony, leaving only Akshay and me.

  Akshay turned to me and smiled. “You know, Jarrod, the only member of the company who was absent during all of this was Dame Sylvia. She would certainly have cause to swipe Claire’s Academy Award. She despised her and has never won one herself. Perhaps she was your attacker.”

  “I wasn’t attacked by an eighty-year-old woman, Akshay,” I said, trying to maneuver around him to get out the door. He blocked my path.

  “Oh, I’m certain she could take you in a fight any day,” he said.

  “Maybe so. But I have no doubt I could whip your curried ass,” I said, not backing down.

  Akshay and I stared at each other, neither of us wavering, not for a second. Finally, Akshay scoffed, shaking his head as if I was inconsequential to him, like an irritating little gnat, and walked out the door. I hated him more than ever.

  Kenneth hadn’t lied about the memorial service at Westminster Abbey for Claire Richards. It was packed with royalty. And not just British royalty. Hollywood came calling too. Tom Cruise showed up. So did Tom Hanks and wife Rita Wilson. I was seated two rows behind Sir Elton John and Dame Judi Dench. Prince Charles and new wife Camilla Parker Bowles arrived with much fanfare and were seated directly behind Claire’s immediate family, including two brothers, their wives, and assorted nieces and nephews. Sir Michael Caine paid tribute to the wild and uproarious actress with hilarious tales of their days trying to crack each other up while performing As You Like It at the Old Vic. Nearly a dozen of Claire’s costars, directors, costumers, and producers lined up to sing her praises. Liam, acknowledged by Claire’s family only as one of a long line of her boy toys, gamely tried to deliver a hastily written eulogy, but he was so inconsolable, so distraught, that Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber had to escort him back to his seat after only a few opening words.

  Outside the church was a madhouse. Reporters jostling to get shots of the famous attendees. Thousands of mourning fans kept at bay by a veritable army of police officers. News crews from all over the world blocking the streets with their vans, falling over themselves to cover this sad, unsettling, still-unexplainable loss. Claire’s last public appearance was a powerhouse of pomp and circumstance. Not even the most inventive publicist could have planned such a spectacle. On this dark, cloudy, gray day in Great Britain, Claire’s accomplishments and reputation could not be denied, not even by Dame Sylvia, who was unable to attend because of a head cold that would miraculously disappear by happy hour. Claire Richards was one of a kind. And I missed her terribly.

  No one was battered by Claire’s legacy more than poor, naïve little Minx, who bravely took to the stage the following day, blissfully unaware she was walking into the lion’s den. None of us seriously expected her to live up to Claire. But we were totally unprepared for just how awful she was. Her quaking nerves got the best of her. She butchered her way through the play’s text, dropping lines and confusing her fellow actors, nervously wrapping her curly brown hair around her index finger when she wasn’t speaking, and finally wandering offstage to consult the script midway through her climactic speech. I later learned that Claire had casting approval over her understudy and purposely chose a bad actress to ensure that if she were unable to perform there would be no show. Of course, poor Claire never took into account the event of her own death.

  As I watched Minx’s agonizing performance from the wings, I caught sight of Wallace standing in the back of the theater, weeping as his wife Katrina gently patted his back, trying to comfort him. It was over. We all knew it. And then, when Minx finally died on stage, the audience whooped and hollered. They were thrilled that both the star of the show and the audience themselves were all finally put out of their misery. Minx knew she had blown it. The show had been such a stink bomb that the actors almost didn’t bother with the curtain calls. We were busy consoling Minx when the curtain was raised for our bows. Half the audience had already begun racing for the exits as if a raging fire were sweeping through the theater. The remaining patrons, in a show of abject pity, offered
tepid applause.

  I could see Kenneth up in the booth on his cell phone, already begging his agent to line up a new gig and fast. He had two separate alimonies to shell out.

  It had been quite a ride. Although I had been beaten up by my director, looked down upon by a majority of my costars, and ruthlessly ravaged in the press, I wouldn’t have traded this experience for anything. I could fly home knowing I had not only befriended but also won the respect of Claire Richards, a theatrical legend. It was worth all the heartache and pain of the past month. The memory of our brief time together would be something I could relish for the rest of my life.

  I had already cleaned out my dressing room that morning, expecting the worst, so all that was left for me to do was say my good-byes and hightail it back to the Savoy. But as I began my procession down the corridor of dressing rooms, I realized the only person in this entire company I had any affection for was dead. I didn’t need to subject myself to that fake “I would love to work with you again” ritual actors put themselves through in an effort not to burn any bridges. So instead I just walked out.

  It was a crisp, cool night in London and as I strolled back to my hotel, I pulled out my cell phone and called Charlie. There was no answer. Isis didn’t even pick up. I thought that was strange. I knew Charlie was quickly bouncing back through a rigorous physical-therapy regimen with the studly Chad, but it was a bit early for him to be out carousing on the town with Isis. I decided to try calling him again later.

  As I glided through the opulent, historic lobby of the Savoy, Arthur the friendly bellhop in his trademark dusty gray suit with black pinstripes called out to me.

  “Good evening, Mr. Jarvis,” he said, waving a shaky hand at me.

  “Hello, Arthur,” I said.

  “How did your show go?”

  “We closed.”

  “Oh. I didn’t even get a chance to come see it.”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” I said and made a beeline for the elevators.

  “Your friend has arrived. He’s upstairs.”