Red Velvet

by Noelle Mack

  “Ma’am,” he began. Ruth froze. The muggy day must be making her look old or something. Her first ma’am. She hated him for it. “You can’t walk through here, ma’am. We’re shooting.”

  “I live just down the street. Don’t tell me where I can walk.”

  He waved the clipboard at the action behind him. About the only breeze going on this hot day, Ruth thought irritably. “Sorry, ma’am.” He steered her to one side as other crew guys went past with light stands and sound equipment. She noted the logo on the trailer truck: CB3. Despite her bad mood, which was entirely the fault of Nicky Del Bianco, who had left her unloved and unlaid for far too long, Ruth was curious.

  “So what are you shooting?”

  “The pilot episode for The Goombah Girls. CB3 Productions wants to cash in on the popularity of mob shows.”

  Tuff made a faint gagging sound and Ruth gave him a little more leash. But she wanted to gag too.

  “Mix The Gilmore Girls and The Sopranos, and you get the idea. Brilliant, huh?”

  Ruth only shrugged. She didn’t think so but millions of TV watchers would probably love it.

  “So we came out here to shoot an authentic Italian-American blue-collar location. Little brick houses. Awnings on every window. White gravel in the yards and maybe a statue of St. Francis. Or those plaster Madonnas with fake roses. You know, super tacky.”

  She didn’t like the neighborhood she’d grown up in being described as tacky. And those Madonna statues meant something to the old Italians who shrinkwrapped them every winter and set out new plastic roses in front of them in the spring. And as far as St. Francis, he meant a lot to the squirrels, who ate the birdseed and bread crusts scattered at his humble concrete feet. Not like the animals had a catering truck, she thought with indignation, wishing she could think of a way to put this kid in his place.

  The guy turned around as if a sixth sense warned him that someone was important was approaching. “Whoops, the AD. Our assistant director,” he added officiously. “Hey, Gil.”

  Gil didn’t bother to say hello to her, but spoke directly to Clipboard Guy. “We need people for a crowd scene. Ask some of the locals, OK?” He glanced at Ruth. “She’ll do.”

  Ruth put her hand on her hip and favored Gil with a killer glare. He seemed to be impervious to it. “Wanna be in a movie?” he asked rudely. He seemed not to care what her answer would be.

  She was about to give him and Clip a piece of her mind, a really self-righteous piece, but she thought it over.

  Why not? her shameless side inquired. Have some fun. Nick’s been crazy busy and there’s nothing you can do about it. No point sitting around a stuffy apartment in the Bronx wishing he was doing you.

  “Okay,” she said. Tuff tugged at his leash, reminding her of his existence and burning need to get going. “Uh, what about my dog?”

  The AD flipped through the script. “No dog in the scene. Dump him at home and come back in an hour. Fifty dollars a day, take it or leave it.” He looked her up and down. “Think you could change your clothes? Look more like a real goombah girl?”

  Ruth stiffened. Then she remembered the outfit she’d strutted around in all those weeks ago. The outfit that in some mysterious way had changed her entire life. Brought her and Nick together, in fact. Maybe it had the power to bring him back again. She could call up Sofia and borrow it one more time. What the hell.

  “Sure,” she chirped. “I’d be happy to betray my cultural heritage and perpetuate damaging stereotypes of Italian-Americans for fifty bucks. No problem.” Ruth was sure her sarcasm would be wasted on the AD, but just thought she’d get a few licks in. She was going to do this.

  As expected, the AD didn’t seem to hear. “Get her a release to sign and see who else you can hustle,” he told Clip.

  Ruth watched them go back into the crowd, then turned and headed home. Tuff ran ahead but stopped short suddenly, sniffing the air. “If you think that pretty little poodle is waiting around for you to show up, think again, Tuff. I bet she has better things to do.”

  Sofia made it over to Ruth’s place in less than seven minutes. She bustled through the door that Ruth held open, carrying drycleaned clothes swathed in thin, clear plastic bags that were sticking to her legs. “Ugh. It’s so muggy. I hate summers in New York. But kiss kiss, baby. We’re gonna make you a star!”

  “Sofia, they need extras. All I have to do is stand there. Not a chance of stardom.”

  “You never know. The leading lady could sprain her ankle and you’d have to go on in her place. This could be your big break, Ruthie.”

  She took the heaps of clothes from her cousin’s arms and dropped them on the sofa. “I’m not an actress.”

  “You signed up for that screenwriting course. Same thing or next door to it. Whatever, it’s all good.”

  Ruth sighed, looking for the black leather microsuit she’d worn. “Yeah? If Nicky showed up once in a while, it would be even better.”

  Sofia looked at her curiously. “Don’t tell me he’s losing interest so soon. Not when I just forgave you for landing him, even though I am married and would have to regretfully say no should he ask me.”

  “He’s been busy.”

  Her cousin patted her hand. “Could be the truth. Busy doesn’t always mean unfaithful. Usually it does, though.”

  “Thanks for cheering me up.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Ruth, you’re gonna have a great time today. Forget about Nicky for now. Hey, d’ya think they’d want me too? I’d love to be a goombah girl. Let’s have some fun. What else is there in life?”

  Bambino cheeped and sidled toward them on the perch inside his now-not-so-new cage.

  “See. The parakeet agrees. It’s a sign.”

  Ruth shrugged, barely able to do it while she was still holding the clothes. “Then who am I to disagree?”

  With Sofia’s help, they got dolled up in less than half an hour, and decided to take her air-conditioned Caddy to go the few blocks back so their makeup wouldn’t melt. On her way out Sofia glanced at Mr. And Mrs. Agnelli, stretched out flat on plastic-webbed lounges in the shady part of their driveway, trying to catch a nonexistent breeze.

  “They look like a display at Rizzo’s Funeral Home,” she said to Ruth as she slid behind the wheel. Mrs. Agnelli lifted a hand in limp farewell and Sofia waved back. “Rest in peace,” she added sotto voce.

  Back on the fringes of the production setup, Clip waved them into a parking space. Apparently the black, late-model Cadillac made all the difference, because he didn’t recognize Ruth right away. She pulled down her sunglasses and batted her eyes. “Remember me? I was walking my dog.”

  “Oh—yeah. Of course.” He gaped at Sofia, whose outfit was even more gapeworthy than Ruth’s. “And you are?”

  Ruth noticed that he didn’t call her cousin ma’am. “She’s with me.”

  He flipped through the sheaf of papers on his clipboard and pulled out two form releases allowing footage with them in it to be used by CB3, and indicated where they should sign.

  “My autograph?” Sofia beamed, and signed the release in gorgeous, flowing Catholic high school script. The last of the penmanship nuns had taught it to her. Ruth, five years younger, hadn’t had that advantage. Her signature was no more than a scrawl.

  Clip took the two forms without looking at them, and then pulled out what Ruth recognized as a shooting script. He flipped through to the center and said, “Take a look at this.”

  Sofia read over his right shoulder and Ruth, over his left, before the two exchanged a glance.

  “I just want you to understand your motivation in this scene before we start rolling,” Clip went on. “It’s a critical moment, juxtaposing the human desire for intimacy with the bleak reality of existence.”

  “I thought this movie was about goombahs,” Sofia said.

  “I thought this was a cable TV show,” Ruth said. “The AD didn’t mention intimate desire or bleak reality.”

  Clip nodded patiently. “But it�
�s in there. I know because I wrote it.”

  Ruth saw Sofia’s plucked and penciled eyebrows rise. “You wrote it?” she asked. “But you’re, uh—Clipboard Guy. Sorry. I don’t know your name. In my mind, you’re Clip.”

  He smiled shyly. “I like that. Kinda like Gadge. Very old school. Very film.”

  Sofia looked to Ruth for confirmation that Clip was actually speaking English. Ruth thought for a minute, then understanding dawned. “Gadge—oh right. Short for gadget. Gadge was Elia Kazan’s nickname,” she said to her baffled cousin. “He directed On the Waterfront.”

  “Ohmigawdddddddd,” Sofia breathed. “With Marlon Brando. Do you know him, Clip?”

  “Marlon Brando’s dead,” he pointed out.

  “I mean this Gadge person.”

  “He’s dead too.”

  “Even so. I’m impressed.” Sofia looked at Clip with awe and he blushed.

  The AD came running up. “Let’s go, girls. We’re rolling in five. I need you on the set.”

  “Whaddya want me to do?” Sofia said, grabbing Ruth by the hand and following him. He looked back at her. “You’re taller,” he said to Sofia. “Come with me. You—” He took by the shoulder and planted her by a gaggle of goombahs who were standing by, joking with the lighting guys. “You wait here. You’re not in this shot.”

  Sofia was propelled into the crowd scene and barely had time to turn around and mouth sorry at Ruth. So much for stardom, Ruth thought sourly.

  One of the watching guys, a skinny one, switched the stumpy cigar in the side of his mouth to the other side of his mouth and gave her a reptilian smile. “Come here often?”

  “No.” She edged away.

  He took that as a challenge and moved in. “You’re cute.”

  Ruth folded her arms over her chest. Bad move. She was already sweating in the black leather outfit, even though the shirt was microscopically short. She supposed she would have to talk to him. The AD hadn’t said where or when she would be needed, and she wasn’t going to slink away and let Sofia get all the glory.

  “Thanks,” she said flatly, pushing her sunglasses up her sweaty nose. “So…are you an extra or an actor?”

  He laughed in a gurgly way. “None of the above. I’m a producer.”

  But you look like a goombah. She didn’t say it, just looked at him.

  “We got a lotta money in this production,” he added. “It’s my job to see that it’s spent.”

  “Really,” she said noncommittally.

  “Uh-huh. Hey, you must be an actress.” He sidled closer, looking around like he wanted everyone to see he was talking to her. “You know what? I got a pool. A big pool. You should come over for a swim. It’s a hot day.”

  Okay, this was weird. He was talking like he was somebody important but he was very clearly…a goombah. He might even be the most dangerous variant of the species: a crazy goombah.

  “Not today,” she said carefully.

  The AD came rushing back before he could ask what color her bikini was. He brought her to stand next to Sofia, who was fidgeting in front of a huge camera on a dolly and the bored-looking crew surrounding it.

  “Follow my cues,” he barked at the two women. He turned to pick up a hand signal from the cameraman and shouted. “Speed! Slate it. This is take fifteen, The Goombah Girls.” A guy with an honest-to-God clapboard, just like in the real movies, rushed up and clapped it front of the camera lens.

  “Have you figured out what this is all about?” Ruth hissed at Sofia.

  “Cut! We’re losing the light,” the AD shouted. A cloud drifted over the brilliant sun. Other clouds were moving in sluggishly and the heavy air felt like rain was on the way.

  The crew swarmed around the camera and adjusted this ring and that knob. Clip wormed his way through the onlookers and stood next to the AD, making notes on the script.

  “I have no idea,” Sofia whispered to Ruth. “They seem to be making it up as they go along.”

  The hubbub around the camera ceased and the AD issued the same odd commands. “Act sexy,” he said to Sofia and Ruth. Her cousin pouted, flipped her hair and blew kisses at the camera.

  Ruth just stood there, wondering what the hell she was going to do. If she was supposed to be wanton, she wouldn’t. That was her private side, part of a game she liked to play with Nick. Not with an amateur film crew and a bunch of freaky goombahs who called themselves producers.

  The black-clad men were hooting at Sofia, making obscene suggestions in Calabrian dialect. She told them what they could do to themselves in modern Italian.

  Speaking of Nick…someone who looked an awful lot like him was easing his way into the back row of watching men. But it was hard to tell. The guy in the back was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. And there were other guys with him, who didn’t look like they were part of the film crew either.

  Something her mother had once said came back to her. When you’re in love, you think you see your lover everywhere. Or at least you see his car.

  Was that Nick? What the hell was he doing on this shoot? Well, come to think of it, he did live around here and not all that far away, near the Grand Concourse. Had he been gone so long that she’d forgotten what he looked like?

  Ruth’s red lips parted as she puffed out a breath, thinking. The cameraman swung her way and the focus puller made the lens zoom in on her mouth. The Nick lookalike mouthed the words shut up as she stared intently at him, but not before Ruth whispered, “Nicky Del Bianco, is that you?”

  Clip consulted his script. “There is no Nicky Del Bianco in this scene.”

  “A lotta things ain’t in this scene,” the biggest of the goombahs said. “Like excitement. Like tits. Write in some tits, kid. And don’t give me that existentialist crap.”

  Clip shook his head. “She didn’t sign a release for a nude scene. And I’d have to get her picture with a valid state or federal government ID for a tit shot.”

  The goombah only growled.

  “We have to prove she’s over eighteen,” Clip explained.

  C’mon, Ruth wanted to say. You called me ma’am. You know damn well I’m over eighteen. But like the clouds piling up in the summer sky, the mood on the CB3 set was turning ugly. The onlookers were walking off in twos and threes, disillusioned with showbiz, complaining about not being able to park. The star still had not appeared from his or her dressing trailer, if there was a star. The goombahs were muttering to each other, meaty hands thrust in their pockets, talking about going to Mario’s on Arthur Avenue for insalata de mare, a dish in which squid got respect.

  Ruth searched the crowd for the man who looked like Nick. She spotted the nondescript baseball cap jammed on his head—and when he turned his back to her, she finally saw that dark-gold hair. Yeah, that was him. Those shoulders. That cocky walk.

  Hot, tired, sweaty, bored, and sure, really sure that was him, she left the set before the AD could stop her. “Hey, we’re not done with you!” he shouted. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Fuck off,” Ruth explained.

  “Cut!”

  She walked up to Nick and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

  He whirled around and almost replied, then clamped his mouth shut. The AD caught up with Ruth and grabbed her roughly by the upper arm. “Get the hell back on the set or I’ll—”

  One powerful uppercut punch from Nick took care of the rest of that sentence. The AD folded up and lay down on the sidewalk peacefully enough, eyes closed. The first few drops of rain splattered down on his face. He opened his eyes…and witnessed the mass exodus of the mob guys, who were crashing through hedges, getting into double-parked cars, running down the streets. The skinny one, the one who’d talked to Ruth and the last one to figure out that the so-called film shoot was turning into a round-up, tripped over the AD, who moaned. Skinny didn’t even bother to get up, just stretched out his wrists for the cuffs to come.

  Nick obliged, leaving the mob guy for his colleagues, don
e with the dirty work. “Hey, honey. Why am I here? Just doing my job. You almost blew my cover. But I still love you.”

  “What?”

  “I said I love you.” He planted a kiss on her lipsticky mouth and came up for air in about a minute, looking like a clown. “Mind if I ask you the same question? What are you doing here?”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t figure out that they weren’t legit,” Sofia complained.

  Nicky raised his hand, like he could tell her why she hadn’t but he was too polite, so he wouldn’t.

  Sofia didn’t figure that out either, just kept throwing the clothes she’d brought over to Ruth’s apartment willy-nilly into garbage bags to protect them from the pouring rain outside. Nick and Ruth cuddled on the sofa.

  “Aww. Look at the lovebirds,” Sofia said. “Enjoy yourselves. I’m going home.” She threw the last bag onto the pile. But run it by me one more time, Nicky. I hafta explain what happened and I don’t want Joe calling here for details when you two are all hugged up.”

  Nick took his arm off Ruth’s shoulders and leaned forward, clasping his hands. “I’ve been investigating mob money laundering. I’m not going to go into the details, because the investigation isn’t over yet. But the production you stumbled into was fake.”

  “But CB3 is a real network,” Sofia said. Her glittering dreams of stardom were dying down to ashes.

  He shook his head. “Small outfit, using public access airtime. They own two cameras, rent studio space and hire freelancers by the day. Plus Clip. A film school student who thought he was getting a shot at the big time. I understand he was planning to take the footage to Sundance, see if he could cut a deal with indie producers to distribute it.”

  “Poor Clip,” Ruthie said softly. “Is he going to be locked up?”

  “Nah.”

  “Lock him up anyway. He called me ma’am.”

  “No law against that,” Nick said, laughing. “But I feel your pain.”

  “Ruthie, shut up,” Sofia whined. “I wanna hear the rest.”

  Nick leaned back. “Anyway, CB3 made a deal with the Queens branch of the Fabrizi family. They pretend to make a movie, a mountain of money gets funneled through CB3 to mob-run businesses, like a restaurant catering company and a trailer-truck company, the goodfellas play kissyface with wannabe actresses and everybody’s happy.”