Blast from the Past

by Kelner, Toni, L. P.

  “Do that!” Edwina said, handing it to him.

  “Done!” he said and trotted away.

  “Seals!” Edwina said, throwing her hands into the air. “Were seals in the storyboard?” She glared at Tilda as if expecting an answer.

  “I’m guessing not.”

  “No, it was a totally seal-free shot. We’re supposed to film seals later, in San Diego, where we don’t have to shoot in one day and one day only to make the care-takers of the island happy. But Joni saw seals, and off she went. I’m sure the footage will be great—she always gets great footage. But not only did she endanger this shoot, but now we’re going to have to match today’s seal footage with San Diego’s seal footage. What if they aren’t the same size or color or . . . ?” She put the cap back on the Sharpie and gave it back to Tilda. “I better go make sure nothing else goes wrong.”

  Tilda nodded, and stepped well back as the producer stomped away. In fact, after that she decided to go the other way entirely. She spent the rest of the morning snapping photos and doing her best to stay out of the way of the film crew and not disturb any flora or fauna. It required enough fast stepping that she became convinced that it would make a terrific video game.

  Laryea showed up at some point, dressed in his Dylan O’Taine finery, and Tilda got to watch the filming of several quick bits: O’Taine looking up at the lighthouse, O’Taine at the door of the lighthouse, O’Taine walking toward the lighthouse, O’Taine walking away from the lighthouse, O’Taine running toward the lighthouse, O’Taine running away from the lighthouse. These shots were coverage, seconds of footage that might be needed to fill in longer sequences.

  Tilda couldn’t resist taking a few surreptitious shots of Laryea relaxing between shots, including a great one of him dancing an impromptu tango with an exasperated Edwina. That she managed to do so without being caught by Sebastian gave her perverse pleasure.

  The film crew continued to buzz around like bees having panic attacks until just before noon when, according to a PA Tilda spoke to, they lost the light. Then it was time to start packing up. Laryea and Sebastian weren’t about to stay for that, of course, and immediately headed for the boat. Tilda did the same, and earned a huge smile from Laryea by giving him one last, somewhat crumbly, chocolate chip cookie.

  The boat ride was too noisy and windy for conversation, so Tilda was happy to keep an eye out for any seals that might have escaped Joni’s camera. They split up at the dock on the mainland, with Tilda heading for her car while Laryea and Sebastian got into a waiting limo—not, Tilda noted, the same one that had killed Foster.

  What with the limo being harder to maneuver on Cape Cod’s narrow roads, and perhaps a driver who wasn’t as good as Pete Ellis, Tilda beat the limo back to the inn and saw Greg Dickson standing on the lawn outside, careful to not even step onto the veranda.

  “Is Laryea coming or what?” he asked. “I’ve been here for hours.”

  “He should be right behind me,” she said. If he’d asked a little more nicely, she might have introduced them, but as it was, she decided to let him handle it himself. When she saw the limo pulling in, she stopped to see how the encounter worked out, trying to decide who she’d bet on in a smackdown: the irrepressible Photo-Operative or the supercilious Sebastian.

  To her considerable surprise, neither took the belt. It was Laryea himself.

  After the limo pulled up, Hoover hopped out of the driver’s seat and stepped smartly to the passenger side to open the door. Laryea climbed out first, followed by Sebastian, who was lugging a pair of bulging tote bags. Dickson approached with a big smile and his hand held out.

  “Mr. Laryea, I’m a big fan of your work, and I was wondering if you could stand over here with me for a picture?” He gestured to where his camera was set out on a tripod, ready for them.

  Laryea glanced at him, then swept right past, ignoring the hand, the camera, and the smile. Sebastian sniffed at Dickson as he passed and said, “Hoover, get rid of that.”

  Poor Dickson was left standing with his mouth open. “What the fuck? Tom Cruise let me take his picture. Adam Sandler let me take his picture. Clint effing East-wood let me take his picture. And this guy won’t let me take his picture?”

  “Sorry, man,” Hoover said, looking embarrassed. “You’ve got to get going.”

  “Cameron Diaz, Cher, Helen Mirren, Anna Paquin. I’ve got them all. But not John Laryea.” He glared up at Tilda, as if it were her fault. “What’s the matter with that guy?”

  “I’ve got no clue. He’s been very open with me.”

  “What’d you do? Blow him?”

  “Hey, hey!” Hoover said. “You get your ass out of here!”

  But as Dickson grabbed his camera, he said, “Seriously, did you tell him not to talk to me or what? I mean, are you that worried about the competition?”

  “Dude, the day I worry about competition from a college boy with a blog is the day I find a new job.” Then she did her best imitation of Sebastian and swept inside.

  Despite the pleasure of getting the last word, she was still disturbed. Not just by Dickson’s being an ass, but by Laryea’s behavior. Hadn’t he said he wanted everybody to like him? So why hadn’t that applied to Dickson, now that he knew the guy wasn’t a stalker, just a fan with a website?

  Come to think of it, why had Laryea been so resistant to letting Hugh Wilder get pictures for the local paper? Okay, he didn’t want to be linked too strongly with The Blastoffs, which she could understand. But still, blowing off a former costar seemed a bit harsh.

  Those incidents just didn’t fit in with what she’d seen of the man. Was he faking being nice to her, or was she missing something?

  Chapter 27

  Here it is: stars are not not not what you think. They are not remotely what the world believes them to be, either. Most of them are smaller than you think, and all of them are more frightened than you think—and don’t you ever forget that if you are lucky enough to work with them.

  —WILLIAM GOLDMAN, WHICH LIE DID I TELL?: MORE ADVENTURES IN THE SCREEN TRADE

  AFTER a much needed bathroom break, Tilda headed to the bar for a bowl of tomato soup and a club sandwich, and was still eating when Nick arrived.

  “I thought you’d be getting some sleep,” she said when he sat down at her table.

  “I’m on the way, but Hoover just told me what happened with that Dickson guy. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. But what a wanker! As if it were my fault Laryea wasn’t in the mood for a photo op.”

  “Of course not. It’s ours.”

  “Come again?”

  “Sebastian called Dad to chew him out on Laryea’s behalf. Apparently it’s our fault that Dickson is allowed in the vicinity of Mr. Laryea, when any right-thinking person would have him deported immediately. The concept of public space is not familiar to Sebastian.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Tilda said. “Laryea managed to find an assistant who is even nastier than Foster.”

  “And shorter,” Nick reminded her. “Do they grow these guys in a vat or what?”

  “Sebastian says he works with a service. I’m guessing it’s Assholes-R-Us.”

  “Or WankerExpress, when you absolutely, positively have to annoy somebody the same day.”

  “McPITAs?”

  “You lost me.”

  “PITA equals ‘pain in the ass.’ ”

  “Not bad, but a little opaque. Anyway, going back to Dickson, Dad told Sebastian that we’ll do our best, but we can’t throw him into the canal unless he actually does something threatening. After today’s outburst, are you still sure he’s harmless?”

  “Not as sure as I was,” she admitted, “but all today really proves is that he’s got a mouth on him.”

  “Maybe, but if you see him around again, call me or one of the guys, okay?”

  She didn’t answer for a minute.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to decide if I should gratefully accept your manly
protection or be offended by the implication that a modern woman like me can’t defend herself.”

  “Would it help if I pointed out that many of our clients are men, or that some of our people are women and therefore supply womanly protection?”

  “It would. Thank you for respecting my sensitivities.”

  “I am a modern guy, secure in my masculinity. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go find my blankie and take my afternoon nap.”

  Tilda laughed, and after he left, continued to enjoy her sandwich, but something Nick had said about Sebastian was niggling at her. He was short, wasn’t he? Definitely shorter than she was. Shorter than Foster had been, too, and Foster hadn’t been tall. Meaning that both men were considerably shorter than Laryea. She didn’t know what the average height was for personal assistants to the stars, but it was an interesting coincidence.

  It wasn’t a thought she wanted to examine further in public, so after she finished eating, she headed back to her cottage and settled down for some Web investigation.

  First she found Laryea’s biography on IMDb. His height was listed as six feet. Then she found a selection of publicity photos of him in various movies with various costars. He invariably looked taller than the women and most of the men, even actors whose IMDb bios said they were over six foot tall.

  Okay, that wasn’t exactly lying. Maybe Laryea was playing men who were taller than he was himself. Elijah Wood wasn’t really hobbit-sized, after all. It was no more dishonest than Keira Knightley enhancing her bosom when the role called for it, or William Shatner and his Starfleet approved wig.

  But what about off camera? Tilda went trolling for semicandid shots of Laryea on red carpets and at award shows. In each, he managed to appear taller than most of his costars—no matter what their listed height was—even though the women were often wearing ludicrously high heels.

  Finally she went to Celebheights.com, one of the more bizarre celebrity websites. The guy who ran it had spent vast amounts of time and effort trying to determine the actual heights of movie and TV stars, as opposed to what they claimed to be. He even explained how it was possible to fool the camera with shoe lifts, perspectives, and elevator shoes, and listed techniques for figuring out a star’s real height. After a bit of playing around, Tilda still couldn’t say for sure how tall Laryea was, but she was convinced that he was considerably less than six feet.

  Suddenly some apparent anomalies made sense. Of course Laryea chose short assistants. Having them around made him look taller. The time Foster had gotten snotty about her taking pictures, Laryea had been standing—Foster had posed him sitting down. Then there were the boots he wore with his Dylan O’Taine costume instead of going barefoot. She’d bet her favorite Banana Splits T-shirt that they had lifts in them.

  Laryea’s real height even explained why he’d been so curt with the Photo-Operative. Tilda went to Dickson’s website and confirmed her memory of him being fairly tall. He was a head above Tom Cruise, and taller than all the women he was pictured with. He’d have towered over Laryea, even if the star was wearing lifts or elevator shoes.

  Tilda noted that in his newest photo Dickson was standing next to Hugh Wilder, and was only a tiny bit taller than the older man. But that was enough to show that Wilder was taller than Laryea, which would have been even more obvious if Wilder was wearing his Quasit costume. No wonder Laryea had dodged photos with either of them.

  John Laryea, action hero supreme, was short.

  Chapter 28

  Why did Demara do it? He stole no money and never hurt anyone. Asked his motives, he said, “Rascality, pure rascality.” But other remarks he made suggest he wanted to lead an exciting life without going through a lot of tiresome training—and that he liked to prove himself superior to the people he duped.

  —“ ‘PURE RASCALITY’ HAS LOST ITS SHINE SINCE LAST TUESDAY” BY ROBERT FULFORD, NATIONAL POST (TORONTO)

  TILDA couldn’t help snickering, and wondered who she could share this snippet with without ruining her career—she had no doubt that publishing it would bring Laryea’s vengeance down upon her. Briefly she considered the idea that he’d arranged for Foster’s death because he was afraid he was about to break the height story to the press, but before her mind could go too far down that path, her cell phone rang.

  She checked caller ID before answering. “June! Just the person I wanted to talk to.”

  “I thought I might be,” her sister said.

  “You’re not going to believe this, but . . .” Tilda launched into the investigation of Laryea’s height, complete with her brilliant deductions, ending with, “As far as I can tell, he’s no more than five-foot-eight, no matter what he says in his biography. He’s been dodging Hugh Wilder all week just because he’s shorter than the guy, and today he wouldn’t let this Photo-Operative guy get a picture for his website.”

  “Does being short make him less of an actor?”

  “Of course not. It’s not his height that’s important. It’s the fact that he lies about it. As famous as he is, as rich as he is, he fakes his height. It must weigh on his mind, too. Listen to how he describes his characters: ‘rises to the occasion,’ ‘larger than life,’ ‘learning to stand tall.’ Talk about your Freudian slips!” There was silence from the other end of the phone. “You’re not chortling. I expected a chortle.”

  “There’s a website devoted to figuring out how tall actors really are?”

  “Sure. People like to see big shots taken down a peg. Pun intentional.”

  “So it seems to me that Laryea has every reason to be sensitive about his height—people are waiting to pounce on him. You know what they say. Even paranoids have enemies.”

  “Well, yeah, but . . .”

  “Should I bring up the story of a young lady who seemed to think it was necessary to stuff her bra?”

  “That was you, June, not me.”

  “Which is why I’m sympathetic to Laryea’s feelings. And it’s worse for him. I only had to fake the bustline for a year or so.”

  “Two years, wasn’t it?”

  “That falls under the heading of ‘or so,’ ” she retorted. “Laryea is stuck wearing lifts and elevator shoes constantly. Plus he lives his life in the spotlight, never knowing when he’ll be caught flat-footed. So to speak.”

  “Who’s making fun of him now?”

  “At least I’m not going to publish an article outing the man’s height.”

  “I’m not going to write about it, either,” Tilda said. “For one, it would be mean and for another, it would be professional suicide unless I were planning to become the next Perez Hilton.”

  “And I’m sure you weren’t planning to joke about it with your friends either.”

  Tilda was suddenly glad that she hadn’t had time to call Cooper. “Okay, you’re right. I should cut the guy a break.” She paused, making sure that she hadn’t made any more Freudian slips. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to be wrong once in a while. Always being right is way annoying.”

  “I’m not always right,” June said. “Remember how I thought my bridesmaids would be able to get more use out of their gowns.”

  “Ouch. Don’t remind me.” For some reason, the usually style conscious June had picked lime green dresses. With matching shoes. And as Kermit had always said, it isn’t easy being green. “I used mine for a Halloween costume two years ago. I went as a Cyalume light stick and won third prize in the costume contest. People thought it was a scream.”

  “After I spent weeks picking out that dress, you wore it as a Halloween costume?”

  “Um . . . Sort of.” Tilda held her breath, waiting for the explosion.

  “Then you did get more use out of it. Maybe I am always right.”

  “Did you call to remind me of that?”

  “Actually, no. I called to see how you were dealing with witnessing a hit-and-run, considering your phobia about cars.”

  “I don’t think it counts as a phobia. A phobia is an unreasonable fear. I have an exc
ellent reason.”

  “Then I called to see how you were dealing with witnessing a hit-and-run, considering your reasonable fear of cars. Are you going to tell me, or are you going to stall some more?”

  Stalling almost never worked with June—Tilda wasn’t sure why she even tried. “I’m dealing with it okay, I think. I had bad dreams one night, but not since. And I’m not avoiding cars any more than I did before seeing it. Is that normal?”

  “Define normal.”

  “Is it healthy? Am I in denial? Am I going to get post-traumatic stress syndrome and chase after my big sister while dressed as a Cyalume light stick?”

  “Oh now I’m supposed to diagnose you when you didn’t even bother to call me.”

  “I know, I’m an idiot. I should have called you. I did talk to Cooper, but he was the one who called me. And I assume that he’s the one who called you.”

  “Never assume. I called him to get the name of a good caterer, and he asked how you were doing.”

  “Why do you need a caterer?”

  “For a friend. Are you stalling again?”

  “No. Maybe. Anyway, I talked to Cooper and I’ve talked to Nick.”

  “Nick Tolomeo? The one who dumped you via e-mail? I’m sure he was a big help.”

  “We’ve moved past that.”

  “I’d like to move past him with a stick.” June had a tendency to blame Tilda’s breakups on the men involved, which was comforting, though not always fair.

  “The point is,” Tilda said, “I’ve talked to friends and I think I’m okay. Mostly I’ve been distracted by trying to figure out who really killed the guy.”

  “The news I found on the Web said it was a chauffeur.”

  Tilda explained what she was trying to do for Pete Ellis. “I like the guy, and I think he’s innocent, but I don’t know that I’m really going to be able to help him.”

  “It’s frustrating when somebody you know is in trouble, and you can’t help.”