by Nero Blanc
He smiled mirthlessly. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Belle. Lew’s going to make both Quinton and Lance think he’s their very best friend on earth. And you know why? Because he’s going to have to negotiate a contract with one of their agents tonight. And whoever gets the call is going to stick it to him for every perk in the book, because they know Lew’s trapped between the proverbial rock and a hard place. This is a situation every talent agent in Hollywood would kill for.” Don laughed quietly. “Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that it was Lance’s agent who rear-ended Greg Trafeo’s MGA.”
Belle didn’t respond, and the two sat quietly as Lance worked his way through the audition process. Then he was asked to leave by the south door of the studio, while Quinton Hanny approached through the north entrance. Again, the new actor bore an eerie resemblance to Rosco, although the impression was of gentler and less volatile man than Lance. True to Don Schruko’s prediction, Lew Groslir greeted Quinton as if he were a long lost son.
Don nudged Belle. “I didn’t put two and two together until just now, but it’s going to be a real hoot if Quint gets this part. He was married to Ginger Bradmin seven or so years ago.”
“I don’t know who she is,” Belle responded.
“She’s been in a bunch of stuff … baby-doll voice like what’s-her-name in that Jeff Bridges flick … Anyway, she’s playing the wife at the country inn. The one whose husband gets murdered? I forget the gal’s name.”
“Annie?”
“Right … So, if Quinton gets this part, he’s going to have a few choice scenes with his ex-wife … and she ain’t no Georgia peach, despite the cutesy diction.” Don chortled. “I’ll have to be sure all potentially lethal objects are bolted in place. What those two went through during their divorce proceedings was the stuff of Holly wood lore.”
A stagehand passing quietly behind them stopped and crouched down to their level in order to hand Belle an envelope. “This is for you Ms. Graham. It just arrived by messenger.”
Belle said, “Thank you,” opened the envelope, and removed a crossword puzzle. She smiled as she turned to Don, a sense of happy accomplishment spreading across her face. “Here it is … the puzzle I constructed for the show … typeset and ready for its close-up.” She began to refold it and slide it back into the envelope when she noticed something was wrong. “This is odd …”
“What’s odd?” Don asked.
“Well, it’s the same grid that I created for the show, but all the clues are different. This isn’t my puzzle, at all.”
GREETINGS!
Across
1. Classic roadster
4. Wolfed down
7. Mr. Guevara
10. Stargazer?
13. Mr. Brynner
14. Film speed
15. Parking area
16. Film speed
17. Greeting; part 1
20. ___to the stars
21. ___la Douce
22. No Way___
23. Greeting; part 2
24. Mr. Sinatra
26. Ambulance wkr.
27. Slippery one
28. Sunset, poetically
29. Inc. cousin
31. Greeting; part 3
34. Exodus author
36. Return
37. LA. film sch.
40. Greeting; part 4
42. Korean soldier
43. Roger Miller hit
45. A Great Lake
46. Greeting; part 5
47. “The Greatest”
48. ___of Innocence
51. Mr. Chaney
52. Space
54. Dipped out
56. Greeting; part 6
58. Guiness or Olivier
59. Cat call?
60. The___Commandments
61. Greeting; part 7
65. Brain wave recorder; abbr.
66. Layer
67. Long___Tomorrow
68. Geom. Fig.
69. Kildare & Casey; abbr.
70. Horse fodder
71. It’s often inflated
72. One of D.C’s 100
Down
1. Take___, please
2. War in France
3. Super hero
4. Much___About Nothing
5. Mr. Conway
6. Hollywood to Pasadena dir.
7. Hollywood power
8. Jack, Tim or Jennifer
9. LAX info
10. “You look___”
11. PDQ
12. Sonoma neighbor
18. When repeated, a Porter hit
19. Mr. Selleck
23. Belgrade native
25. Quincy star
26. Cut film
27. Al Bundy portrayer
30. Elm, oak, or pine
32. Sgt. or cpl.
33. Hooded org.
35. Request enc.
36. Andrea___, of The Perfect Storm
37. Security Co.
38. LAX overseer
39. Hints
41. The Parent___
44. H.S. Sub.
48. Wards off
49. Mr. Clooney
50. Winner of the first Emmy Award
52. George Steven’s Oscar Winner
53. Mr. Carney
55. Latin love
56. Flower part
57. Garden annoyance
58. Mets’ home
61. ___Framed Roger Rabbit
62. Miss West
63. 66-Across output
64. Seduce
To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords
CHAPTER 10
The sun beat down on the asphalt pavement outside the studio’s main door. The ultraviolet rays and intense heat seemed to pulse from the concrete walls of every box-like building on the lot, from the burning metal of each parked minivan and studio courtesy car, from the glass windshields, the dented trash receptacles, the terracotta tubs of panting flowers that emitted steam—if they’d been watered—or, if not, a parched dryness that smelled like death. There was nothing in the entire smog-laden arena that seemed remotely hospitable, or even slightly seductive or glamorous, to Chick Darlessen. He wondered why on earth he’d chosen his career, and the next second, pondered what he would to do if this final stab at The Big Time failed. Thrown off the set, he thought in disgust. Sent packing while some preening prima donna put a no-talent piece of beefcake through his sorry paces … a hack, like lover-boy Lance diRusa, whose only “motivation” seemed to be how many starlets he could bed down. Anatomy of a Crossword belonged to Chick Darlessen! It was his creation! (Well, sort of …) And no one was going to take it away from him. Turning the corner, while fury, frustration, and fear made his eyelids jitter and his palms sweat, the reality of the situation—as well as the sight of a certain Wanda Jorcrof—stopped Darlessen cold in his tracks.
For a long moment, he simply couldn’t speak. Neither did Wanda. Instead, she glared at him, her pigeon-toes planted firmly in blunt, stridently trendy thick-soled shoes, her bowl-cut hair almost bristling in its steely straightness. She crossed her arms over her ample chest and stood her ground, unaffected by the scorching heat beating down upon her boxy shoulders, or Darlessen’s pointed stare.
“How did you get on this lot?” he finally demanded.
“Told the guard I needed to see you, Chickie. Told him we were working together—we were partners, and you were waiting for these rewrites.” She flapped a few sheets of paper in the air. “You needed these PDQ, ASAP, right?”
Chick opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed, and tried again. “No one phoned the set to say I had a visitor.” His throat felt as dry as sand.
“That’s your problem—and their problem. Security a round here isn’t in my jur-is-dic-tion.” She pronounced the word carefully, sounding out each syllable as if she were questioning its etymology.
Darlessen looked her over while he kept his distance. His manner seemed to indicate that he half expected Wanda Jorcrof to sud
denly leap forward and knock him to the ground, a concept that would have made him laugh out loud on any other day.
“I’m busy. What do you want, Wanda?” As Chick asked the question, his eyes ducked furtively toward the door he’d just exited. Wanda was becoming a major pain in his neck.
“Only what I’ve always wanted. My share of the take. The twenty-five thousand I was promised … that I earned.”
Chick’s glance dodged back and forth between the studio door and Wanda. “Why don’t we find another place to talk? Somewhere out of the sun.”
“You don’t want to be seen with me? Is that it—?”
“No … no … Wanda … It’s just that it’s so hot standing here.”
“It’s gonna get hotter if I don’t get my cash.”
“There’s nothing I can do—”
Her fiercesome expletive stopped the words in Darlessen’s throat. “You can call McKenet!” she all but screamed. “Like you promised!”
“But it’s not really his—”
“We’re in this thing together, Darlessen! Whether you like remembering it or not!”
“Look, Wanda—”
“I need that twenty-five thou, Chickie. Not next week or next month. I need it now. I’ve been waiting since last frig-gin’ August. Half a damn year.”
Darlessen ran his dry tongue over his even dryer lips.
“I don’t want any more games from you, Chickie. I don’t want any more word games, either.” She gave him an evil look.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I think you know. Mr. Crossword Puzzle. Mr. Fancy Screenwriter … If it weren’t for—”
“Look, Wanda … This isn’t a good time or place to discuss—”
“It is for me.”
Darlessen, in his nervousness, kept talking as though she hadn’t spoken. “But I want to help you, Wanda. I do. I know that money’s important to you. Look, I’ve been there. I understand. I do … And I know you’ve had a longer wait than you should have had—”
“You can friggin’ say that again—”
“But right now I’ve got to focus on potential script rewrites, and replacing an actor, and—”
“And a crossword—”
“That, too, Wanda …” Darlessen clenched and unclenched his sweaty hands. Again, he shot a worried glance toward the studio door.
Wanda Jorcrof followed his gaze; her expression turned even more merciless and malevolent. “If you want to get out of the heat, I’ll step inside the studio with you—”
“No! Not there … What I mean is, we’re in the midst of auditions right now. It’s very hectic, and—”
“Did you get the Graham dame?”
Darlessen watched Wanda’s mouth move. Coral-colored lipstick stuck to her teeth, her lips were as thin as razors. “Yes …” he finally admitted.
“So the impossible isn’t impossible after all.” She stared at him with an expression he couldn’t interpret, and he gazed numbly back. “I’ll expect you to get me that money, Chickie. By this weekend. Whatever you have to do. Whether McKenet comes clean or not … It’s in your hands. I want my twenty-five thou. Whatever it takes … Whoever it takes …” And then, Wanda miraculously turned around and walked toward a distant car.
In her wake, Darlessen was left panting for air. His new silk shirt was soaked through with sweat; his new Italian loafers, his new silk socks, the gabardine slacks that still retained the perfumed scent of the fancy shop on Rodeo Drive—everything felt dank and dirty and old. He turned to retrace his steps to the studio door, but as he did, Lance diRusa came barreling out, his auditioning script still clutched in his hand, the tweed jacket he’d worn as a “Rosco costume” clenched heavily in his fist.
He made an angry beeline for Chick. “You ruin this one for me, Darlessen, and you’re toast,” he snarled. “Anatomy will be your swan song in this town.”
As with his previous confrontation, Chick was stunned into momentary silence.
“Toast, Darlessen,” Lance repeated while Chick at last found his voice.
“Don’t threaten me, diRusa. I call the shots around here. Anatomy is my—”
“You’re the writer, Darlessen, and that’s it. Creator means nothing. You’re a nobody. And if you get in my way, you’re gonna be a very, very sorry nobody.”
CHAPTER 11
After unceremoniously dumping Belle off at her hotel in Santa Monica, at the end of what seemed an interminable day, Chick Darlessen opted to take out his many frustrations on the Porsche’s gearbox and the asphalt of the Pacific Coast Highway, leaving a set of parallel black tire marks at each and every stop light along his way home. The early winter twilight had already darkened into night, and the exclusive beachside community in Malibu, where he and his current girlfriend were now renting a multimillion-dollar bungalow, was awash in pale, flickering lights that shone from the houses like beacons of welcome against the vastness of the inky ocean. It should have been a lovely scene, a picture-postcard scene. But Chick Darlessen scarcely noticed it; and if he did, it only produced more spasms of terror in his already jumpy stomach. How much were he and Debra shelling out per month for this quaint little shack? Correction: How much was he shelling out to keep the two of them in fancy digs and fancy togs? Debra Marcollo wasn’t a woman to waste her days fretting over the disparity between income and expense.
Chick clenched his teeth. Wanda Jorcrof, he suddenly thought, Wanda and her twenty-five thousand. What was he supposed to do about that particular time bomb … or her weird reference to Belle Graham …? What was she getting at? What had she discovered? The questions made Darlessen’s clenched teeth ache in his jaw and his forehead knot in pain. And what was he supposed to do about the McKenet situation? What did Wanda expect him to do? And Lance? What about that particularly sorry piece of work? The thought of having to work with that “yo-yo” only made Chick’s teeth hurt more.
Careening along the sand-blown lane that led to his garage, and thence into his ocean-front rental, Darlessen’s bouncing headlamps picked up a female form dodging into the shadows of a neighboring property. He nearly screamed aloud in his shock and dismay. Instead, he pounded the horn, slammed on the brakes, and hit the automatic lock button that shut down exterior access to his car with a series of pinging thunks. In the next second, he recognized the “prowler.” It was none other than his Debra, too scantily clad for the cold of a Malibu night, and by every appearance, three sheets to the wind.
She weaved up to the car, her eyes red and swollen, her mouth puffy from tears. “Someone’s in the house, Chick,” she managed to gasp out. “They broke in … I got home from the gym … well, I had a couple of stops to make first, and then I, well, when I drove up, I noticed … ’Cause I know I beeped the garage door closed before I left, but it was open when I …” Her words disappeared into a fresh spate of crying—added to which were a couple of unladylike hiccups.
Darlessen swung open the car door and stepped out. He didn’t want to. Instead, he wanted to drop the Porsche into reverse, take off, straight up the Pacific Coast Highway and never look back. Not deal with Debra Marcollo or Lance diRusa or Wanda Jorcrof or Dean Ivald or Don Schruko, or his own maxed-out credit cards, or Belle Graham or Stan McKenet or Lee Rennegor or any of the turmoil and trouble that seemed to bubble up out of every studio and every project in L.A. For a moment, Chick even cursed his dead uncle Bart, the gander that had left what had appeared to be the proverbial golden egg, but was now seeming more and more moldy and rotten.
“You’re drunk, Debra,” Chick said. His tone was weary and unkind. “You promised me you were quitting all that.”
“I’m not drunk,” she insisted. “I’m upset, is all.” She clutched a fashionably short aqua sweatshirt against her shoulders. The remainder of her costume consisted of a matching sports bra and tights with lavender thong panties underneath. Her designer cross-trainer shoes were the only substantial part of the outfit. “And I’m cold … and I’m scared.” She looked up at t
he house’s rear windows, an unlit room above the garage. “Someone’s in there, Chick, I swear.”
“Did you call the cops?”
“I couldn’t find my cell phone …” She sniffled and tugged at her sweatshirt.
“Not another one—”
“I’m sure it’s in with my exercise stuff. Or back at the gym.”
“It’s the third one this month, dearest.” It was not said with kindness.
“I’ll find them Chickie, honey …”
Darlessen looked at her, shaking with chill and fear. He knew he should put his arms around her and warm and comfort her, but that was the last thing he wished to do.
“You can call nine-one-one from your car, Chickie.”
As soon as Debra voiced the suggestion, Darlessen recognized it for another situation he wanted to avoid. If someone had indeed broken into the house, he needed to determine why that person was there. Screenwriters who’d just gotten their first big break didn’t possess anything worth stealing—except, perhaps, a new car and clean socks.
He turned to stare into the garage, dark and empty without Debra’s 4x4, which she’d probably left farther up along the road once she saw the open door. From what little Chick could see, the garage looked unviolated and blank, as if Debra had merely sped off to her exercise class—or whatever else she did to occupy her days—and forgotten to beep the dang thing closed. Like the lost cell phones, he thought bitterly, like the promise to lay off the booze and attend meetings.
He stifled an angry sigh, and began walking toward the steps that led up to the front deck.
Debra clutched at him. “You’re not going in there, are you, Chickie?”
He shook her off. “It merely looks like you forgot to close the garage door—”
“But I’m sure I—”
“Right.” Chick pounded up the stairs. Despite his prior statement, his heart was racing. He had a half-formed notion that if he were about to disturb a burglar, noise was imperative. The sound of approaching feet would give the person time to run away—probably down the garage stairs. “Go stand on the beach,” Chick yelled down to Debra, then paused on the deck until she wavered nervously into sight. “Near the overhead lamp, where you’re easily visible. If there’s a problem, just go down the beach until you find someone who’s home.” Then he shouted at her again. “I’m going in!”
