by Nero Blanc
“No.”
“Artistic license.”
CHAPTER 24
Bubba Screter pulled what looked like a small portion of a flexible gladiator’s breastplate out from under his special effects worktable and bent it around Dan Millray’s exposed chest.
“Looks good,” he said. “If you can hold it there, Dan, I’ll tape it in place.”
“Kevlar, huh? Is this the stuff the cops wear? Kind of thin, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yeah, the cops’ stuff is much thicker. This piece here will only protect you from possible blow-back from the blood pack and the paper wad from the blanks. It’d never stop a real bullet. Not a .38, that’s for damn sure.”
Bubba took a wide roll of white athletic tape and began securing the Kevlar to the actor’s chest.
Dan laughed. “I haven’t seen tape like that since I was a linebacker at Northwestern. Does it come off any easier nowadays, or does it still rip all the hair from your body?”
“It’s no different. Do you want to shave your chest first?”
Dan rolled his eyes and groaned. “Thanks, Bubba, I’ll take my chances.”
After the Kevlar was fastened, Dan slipped into a pair of the silk pajamas. Bubba checked the positioning of his handiwork against the Kevlar. He double-checked the aluminum safety plate and the angle of the radio receiver’s small antenna. When he was happy that everything looked perfect, he buttoned up the pajamas. “Okay, buddy-boy,” he said, “time to meet the Grim Reaper.”
The two men made a quick stop at the prop table, then stepped onto the set and checked in with Dean Ivald, as Bubba’s assistant followed close behind with the clothes rack and the four remaining pairs of pajamas. Bubba carried the remote control box he would use to ignite the five blood packs; each charge was tuned to a different frequency.
The set had been transformed slightly to give it a “slept in” look. A pair of tweed trousers, rumpled shirt, bow tie, braces, shoes, socks, and a camel-hair sports jacket had been scattered across the floor. The quilt on the canopy bed had been pulled back and jumbled up to make it appear as if Dan had been sleeping restlessly. One of the pillows had also been tossed onto the floor and the alarm clock knocked over. Miso Lane was busy taking Polaroid photographs to make certain there was continuity between the five different takes.
“Okay, Danno,” Ivald said, “let’s have you on the bed, shall we?”
Millray crossed over to the bed, reclined on his back, and made himself comfortable. Bubba Screter followed and rechecked his blood pack to be certain it hadn’t shifted in position now that the actor was lying down. A makeup man approached, mussed up Dan’s hair, and lacquered it in place with hair spray. Miso Lane materialized once again, and snapped a Polaroid of Dan’s new sleep-heavy and rumpled appearance.
“Now, Dan,” Ivald continued, “remember that you drank far too much vino before going to bed. You left your wife stewing on the couch downstairs, and your sleep had been restless. We want to play up the poisoning subplot we established earlier in the film so that the audience is kept guessing as to how you’ll be killed—right up to the moment Andy fires the gun.” The director turned toward the camera and lights. “All right, people, let’s settle down, we’re going to rehearse this once.” He turned back to Millray. “I may want to shoot this from more than one angle, Danno, so try to give me the same tossing and turning with each take, will you? It’ll make life much more pleasant in the editing room.”
Dan gave Ivald a thumbs up sign. The director stepped behind the camera and shouted, “Andy? Can I get Andy Hofren in here?”
Hofren arrived with the pistol gripped tightly in his right hand. Ivald looked down at him, scrutinized the height at which the cinematographer had selected for his camera, then shouted, “Mr. Schruko, can we get a box in here for Mr. Hofren?”
As if anticipating the director’s every wish, the key grip was there in five seconds. He carried a foot-high wooden box and set it at Andy’s feet. The actor stepped onto it, raising his right arm up to the same level as the camera’s lens.
“All right,” Ivald said, “now we’re cooking. Andy, I want to let Dan have about fifteen seconds of tossing and turning. When I give you the word, you’ll bring the gun into frame from the left side of the camera here. You’ll hold it long enough to establish a menacing presence for the audience, and then on my cue, you’ll fire it. Only once. I want this to look very clean … very premeditated. Remember your motivation … And don’t fire the gun for the rehearsal. Lets save the fireworks for the actual takes, shall we?”
“You got it,” Andy said.
“All right, people, can we settle down? We’re rehearsing.” Ivald waited for the background chatter to fade, then continued. “All set, Danno?”
“You bet.”
“Okay, then. And … action!”
Dan rolled first to his left, then to his right. His eyes were closed, but his brow was furrowed as though he were in the midst of a horrendous nightmare. His lips trembled and he began to mumble a string of incomprehensible words. Ivald allowed Dan to toss and turn for the fifteen seconds, occasionally saying, “Beautiful, Danno,” or “I love it,” or “Right on the money,” while he checked the scene through a small video monitor that displayed exactly what the camera would record on film. And when the time was right Ivald said, “Okay, Andy, slowly bring the .38 into frame … That’s it … a little farther … And … hold it right there … Perfect … And here we go … And … bang!” He clapped his hands together to simulate the gunshot.
“Beautiful. Andy, hold the gun there for a beat so we’ll be able to see the smoke rising from the barrel … And … one thousand one, one thousand two … And … cut! Beautiful, people, beautiful. We’re going to shoot this one.”
Ivald then walked around the camera, crossed the set, and sat on the bed. “It looked super, Danno, but you’re going to need to give me something when that bullet slams into your chest. You can’t just lie there like nothing happened. Don’t make it too large, but I do need a reaction.”
“Absolutely. I’m saving my energy for the takes. I don’t want to blow everything I’ve got on a rehearsal, do I?”
“Right.” Ivald patted him on the leg. “Not too large or too long. Death should be almost instantaneous … Well, with that said … good night, sweet prince.” The director returned to his place behind the camera. “Okay, this’ll be picture, folks. Everyone back to one, please.”
“Where’s the .38?” Andy called out to Dean.
“What?”
“The gun. It’s gone. I set it here on the camera dolly when I went over to get a drink of water, and now it’s not there.”
“Oh, honestly!” Ivald groaned, “What else can go wrong?” He turned to shout to cast and crew, but Don Schruko tapped him on the shoulder before he could speak.
“I have it right here, Dean,” the grip said. His expression was tense and stern as he handed Andy the .38. “Safety first on my sets. I wanted to be sure the blanks were set properly before we start pointing guns at people.”
“Good, fine, can we finally shoot this baby?” Ivald demanded, the impatience in his voice could be heard across the entire sound stage. Schruko stepped behind a lighting stand without responding and joined the crowd of actors and techies.
“All right, boys and girls … Here we go,” Dean bellowed. “Roll camera.”
“Rolling.”
An assistant director stepped in front of the camera and held up a small black chalk board that read ANATOMY OF A CROSSWORD, SCENE NINETY-EIGHT, TAKE ONE, then retreated to his position behind the camera.
“Okay, Danno, die like a man,” Dean said. “And here we go … And … action!”
Dan repeated his movements precisely as he had in the rehearsal; rolling first left then right, and grimacing his way through the nightmare. And again, when the time was right, Dean talked Andy through the firing of the gun.
“All right, Andy, bring the pistol into frame … Slowly … Slowly … Another
inch or so … Perfect … Hold it right there … And on my signal … one thousand one … one thousand two … Fire!”
The explosion reverberated throughout the studio. The noise was deafening. Despite Ivald’s orders, one of the makeup women screamed, then immediately covered her mouth in embarrassment while Bubba Screter triggered the blood pack in perfect synchronization. The thick red liquid spewed upward from Dan’s chest, splattering the sheets and saturating the front of his silk pajamas while the actor’s head shot back into the pillow. Then his eyes opened momentarily in shock and horror as his left hand stroked the front of the pajamas. He brought his bloodied palm up to eye level, surveyed the carnage, looked to the ceiling, and sank back motionless on the bloodied sheets.
“Okay … Hold it … Hold it …” Ivald said, elongating each word as the shot rolled on. “Zoom in closer, now … Andy, pull the gun slowly from the frame. That’s it. Zoom in still closer on Dan. Give me a tight close-up on the dead man’s face. And freeze it … And … And … cut! That was beautiful, people, absolutely beautiful. Mr. Schruko, get this mess cleaned up. We’ll go again from one in ten minutes. On the money, Danno, on the money.”
But Millray wasn’t moving. And as stage hands began to re-dress the set, he remained completely motionless.
Ivald shouted, “Let’s go, Danno, no sleeping on the job. Get yourself washed up and into a fresh set of pjs—PDQ.”
Miso Lane took a quick Polaroid of Millray, then screeched, “O my God, he’s not breathing! Dean! Dean, get over here! I think he’s dead!”
Shay Henlee let out a bloodcurdling scream and whirled toward the costume room. Quinton hurried toward her. Everyone else stood frozen in shock.
Instinctively Rosco pushed his way past the actors and jogged over to the bed. When he got there, Dean and Miso were staring at the limp body.
“How could this happen?” Ivald mumbled. “Didn’t Schruko say that he’d …”
Rosco wedged himself between the two men, grabbed Dan Millray’s left wrist, and checked for a pulse. Then he let the arm drop.
“Strong as an ox,” he said.
Dan’s eyes popped open, and he sat up in the bed. “Hey, can’t anyone around here take a joke?”
Miso laughed tenuously while Ivald gritted his teeth and released a weary sigh. “Actors … They’ll be the death of me, yet … Get yourself cleaned up, Mr. Barrymore. Then we’ll take it from the top.”
The next four takes went smoothly, and without additional practical jokes. Dan died in an identical fashion from three different angles, and Ivald broke the cast and crew for lunch. But as Rosco and Belle began walking toward the studio door on their way to the commissary, the director called them back.
“Can I talk to you both in private?” he said, then led them toward a quiet corner of the studio where they were out of earshot of the departing cast members.
“What’s up?” Rosco asked.
In answer, Dean Ivald pulled several objects from a shirt pocket and held them in his open palm. “I assume you recognize these.”
Rosco nodded. “Slugs from a .38. The real thing, not blanks.”
“Don Schruko just handed them to me. He found them in the pistol when he checked it before the first take.”
“What?” Belle stammered. “Are you suggesting that someone was actually trying to kill Dan Millray?”
“I don’t know what I’m suggesting, other than the fact that someone brought live ammunition onto my set and, I assume, intended to use it.”
CHAPTER 25
Gerry Orso and Stan McKenet had every daily newspaper from Los Angeles, Ventura, Santa Barbara, and Orange counties spread across the surface of the round conference table in one of the second floor production rooms adjacent to the Down & Across set. Daily issues of Variety were there as well. The two men had been pouring over each page repeatedly for the last hour or so, as if they were terrified they’d miss something—which, in fact, they were.
“Nope,” Orso announced at last. “Nada. Nothing. Zip.”
“What about the obit pages?” McKenet demanded.
Gerry Orso gave the show’s producer a look that indicated his displeasure at being taken for such a simpleton. “That’s where I started, Stanley.” He stretched the name out into two overly long syllables, Oliver Hardy fashion. “We have a dead man. We go to the obituaries. That’s where we usually find our family histories. Next of loving kin …” The smile pasted across his tanned face was vulpine, almost evil, and it made his teeth look whiter and sharper than normal teeth. This less-than-cheery expression remained frozen in place for a second or two before vanishing into his beige-toned cheeks. The Gerry Orso of the big shmooze and the enthusiastic glad-to-see-all-my-happy-fans handshake was nowhere in evidence.
“Just asking,” McKenet said sourly. “I like to be covered.” As he spoke, he tapped a handmade loafer on the floor. The leather was a rich mahogany color and looked as thin and supple as the skins used to bind expensive books. The foot inside this pricey piece of apparel was surprisingly small and balletic for such corpulent man. McKenet tapped his foot again. The movement turned into a nervous tic.
“Well, don’t ask,” was Orso’s acerbic response.
“Hey, am I the producer here or what?”
“In name, McKenet. In name only. Before you try to treat me like you do the rest of the staff, just keep in mind who owns what percentage of this show.”
“As if you’d ever let me forget.”
“Down & Across is successful because I make it a success, Stan.” The tone was cold and clipped. “Because all the people out there in TV-Land love me. You bring in a clown like what’s-his-name on Million Dollar Mayhem, just watch your ratings plummet.”
“Yeah, yeah, if I hadn’t taken a flyer and hired you as the show’s replacement host, you’d still be down and out, believe me.”
“Don’t be too sure about that—”
“Down and out just like you howl at all the losers you take such pleasure in tossing off the show.”
Gerry Orso’s tight smile flickered across his face again. “Everyone loves beating up on eggheads, you know that, Stanley. It’s as American as beating up on—” He looked at McKenet’s busy foot. “Would you stop doing that? You’re making me nervous.”
“You? Ha!” McKenet was about to say more, but the door to the production room, the place “high in the heavens,” as Harriet Tammalong liked to say, suddenly swung open, and Rolly Hoddal, the show’s aging warm-up comic, appeared.
“Oh … say, sorry Mr. McKenet … Ger … I didn’t … No one told me you were … I mean, wow, I thought …” The man swung there unsteadily, blinking rapidly as if trying to pull the producer and star into focus.
“Get out of here, Rolly,” Orso and McKenet ordered in unison, and the comic backed away. Gerry followed it up with, “Yeah, take a hike, will ya?”
“Sure … I mean, I didn’t know … Catch you later.” He bumped hard into the wall as he exited.
“I wonder what controlled substance Rolly’s into this time,” Gerry said as he rose to lock the door.
“Who cares? The guy’s cheap. Does his gig and doesn’t ask questions … And he’s loyal.”
“I wonder why the hell he wanted to get into this room. Doesn’t make sense.”
That observation momentarily silenced McKenet. He frowned, then hastily began gathering up the newspapers as Gerry returned to the table. “Like he said, he didn’t think the room was in use.”
“You believe everything you hear, Stan? You start listening to people like Rolly Hoddal, you’ll be in the funny farm before you know it.”
“Look, Orso, I’ve got more on my plate than stewing over what that lousy comic’s up to. He’s probably got a bottle stashed in here somewhere.” He stared down at the papers. “No relatives listed in any of the pieces on Darlessen, huh?”
“Only the bit about the poor Irish granny who raised little ‘Chickie,’ and how she started life working as a ‘scullery maid’ for a r
ich family back East … the rags-to-riches slant. Poor old crone, by heart bleeds … Brings tears to my eyes. She shoulda got herself on Queen for a Day … May she rest in peace.” This time Orso grinned—a cat with a canary, a fox with a juicy dead hen. “Not one mention of Bartann Welner, which is a plus, and there aren’t any little Chickie-Chickie Darlessens running around either. Meaning one timely homicide is about to make two well-deserving producers a million bucks richer.”
McKenet chuckled, and his nervous toes suddenly grew still. “Here’s to Debra Marcollo!”
“Couldn’t have asked for a more perfect babe,” Gerry Orso agreed. “Here’s to our fall-gal, Dipsy-Debbie.”
“And another grateful nod to Bartann Welner and his skunk of a nephew who are now both at last ‘down’ and very much ‘out.’”
Orso’s smile suddenly disappeared. “We’re forgetting someone. A real potential thorn in our side, too.”
McKenet chortled again. “Who?”
“We’re forgetting Wanda Jorcrof. She’s bound to resurface sooner or later.”
McKenet paused for the briefest of seconds. “Not to worry, Ger … She’ll be a piece of cake.”
Orso only stared at him.
“A piece of cake, Ger … like I said. I know how to silence Ms. Wanda Jorcrof … permanently. All I need to do is find her. She was thrown out of her West Hollywood joint. Went back on her rent’s what I heard.” Then McKenet’s glance moved to the floor, momentarily resting on his handsome shoes before drifting toward the other man’s footwear. “You know, Ger, those Guccis you’ve got on … Well, how can I put it? They’re kind of passe. You should visit my shoemaker. He’ll set you up, hand-stitch whatever you want. When you’re in the chips, you should dress the part.”
