Gold Diggers

by Tracie Howard

  Again Max cleared his throat; this time it wasn’t as much for show. He picked up a thick, crisply folded document from the desk next to him and flipped past a few pages until he found the one that really mattered. “The main disbursements in said estate are: liquid assets in the amount of fifteen point seven million dollars, securities in the amount of seventy million, and real estate holdings, including this property, the Baines-Reynolds estate, and the apartment on Park Avenue, which total an additional thirty-five million dollars, bringing the total gross value of the estate to one hundred twenty point seven million dollars.”

  By now you could have heard a pin drop in the wood-paneled room. No one dared to take a breath for fear of desecrating the spirit of the sacred, that being money. June knew that her mother was really rich, but since she’d never been close enough to gauge the depth, she was truly shocked by the large figures being tossed about. She had no idea so much money was at stake. Paulette sat by her side, wearing the world’s best poker face. She may have been a churning mess on the inside, but outside you would never have guessed. Nathan, a man who had plenty of money of his own, believed that you never had enough, and had already gone through the permutations, spreadsheets, and pie charts that would result from merging this fortune into his own, so he sat back, veiling a smile of total satisfaction. Mildred, who was too spoiled to really appreciate the numbers, was fixated only on the personal victory at hand. While she and June had been close when they were very young, for a vain woman it took only one incident to turn the tables.

  Mildred and June were born eleven months apart, and grew up playing together, going to school together, and were generally inseparable until the summer of Mildred’s senior year in high school, when she developed a crush on Dexter Post, a boy whose family had just moved into the neighborhood, and whom all the girls instantly adored.

  Dexter Post was a freshman at Yale, and he was high yellow, had curly, sandy-colored hair, and the cherry on top of that cake was that his father was a bona fide federal judge. Over and above the prestige of being a Baines, high school also taught Mildred to appreciate the benefits of her creamy, light skin and long, straight hair, so there was no doubt in her mind that she would be the girl to snare this prime catch; after all, he was the type of boy that her type of girl should have. Her mother even approved of him and, more important, of his family, the Posts. With some coauthoring from Priscilla, Mildred scripted an epic love story that opened with scenes of Dexter squiring Mildred around to the season’s cotillions; then they’d become the “it couple” while he finished up at Yale, and by act two, right after graduation, they’d be married in a lavish ceremony. Several kids and an oceanside mansion would follow in act three.

  Mildred had the happy ending in the can until she caught June making out with Dexter after school behind the high school gymnasium. June and Dexter were locked in a ravishing, Hollywood-style tongue kiss: lips plastered together and eyes closed, while his hands roamed her body, pulling her closer. The sight of June and Dexter in the throes of lust upset Mildred so much that she ran up to them and physically pulled June away, then slapped the boy’s face before running home to tell her mother every single detail, along with a few choice embellishments.

  By the time the story made its rounds, the horny couple were an inch away from fucking, which ruined June’s reputation forever. Now, not only was she the ugly duckling of the family, but was also the black sheep; Priscilla never forgave June for publicly disgracing the family and, more unforgivably, for ruining any chance of properly breeding the boy into the family. After that, the two sisters became archenemies; the battle lines were drawn as clearly as the color lines. Being the object of such scorn, June soon ran away from home with the first guy who meandered along. He wasn’t educated, rich, handsome, or of good pedigree; in fact, he was darker than June, with a headful of kinky hair. He was also Paulette’s father.

  Of all those present at the reading of the will, Lauren was the only one who really had no interest in the outcome. As far as she was concerned, money was the cause of most of her unhappiness. She and her cousin weren’t as close as they should be because of it, and she was unhappily married and drifting through life as a result of her mother’s desire to create more of it.

  “As per the wishes of Priscilla Baines-Reynolds, all liquid assets shall go to…”

  Collectively the room held its breath; the walls seemed to suck inward.

  “Her granddaughter…”

  Every head, except one, turned to Lauren.

  “Paulette.”

  The gasp of disbelief was audible. Mildred’s head snapped around 180 degrees with a quickness. Her eyes registered disbelieving shock. Lauren, June, and Nathaniel all sat with their mouths agape.

  Max plowed ahead. “All securities listed in the estate shall go to…”

  Again, silence; everyone but Paulette sat perched on the edge of his chair; Mildred’s nails were nearly piercing through the mahogany wood.

  “Her daughter…”

  All heads now swiveled to Mildred, who tried to rein in her relief.

  “June.”

  This time the shock registered audibly, propelling Mildred from her chair, followed by Nathaniel, who held her elbow as if she might fold down and collapse. If she could have made it, she probably would have lunged for Paulette’s throat. At that moment, however, it was June instead who needed first aid. She appeared to be hyperventilating, and seemed to be in shock. It had never occurred to her to expect anything from anyone.

  Paulette sat calmly amidst the eye of the gathering storm, looking like the well-fed fat cat who’d just swallowed a canary whole.

  Max spoke up over the din of disbelief. “Regarding real estate disbursements, it is the final will and testament of Priscilla Baines-Reynolds that the apartment on Park Avenue and the main estate are to be given to her granddaughter Lauren, and that this house in which we stand is to be left to her daughter Mildred. That concludes the reading of the last will and testament of Priscilla Baines-Reynolds.”

  TEN

  Los Angeles hadn’t been the great escape Gillian, had imagined it would be. She felt like she’d tripped and fallen into a strange twilight zone. Everyone from the waiter from Idaho, who worked at the all-night diner, to the strip-mall nail technician considered themselves the next big star; they were only biding their time while waiting to be discovered. Everybody was either in the movie business or wanted to be in it, and, sadly, that included her.

  Gillian’s somber mood matched her disheveled appearance as she slouched on Paulette’s sofa wearing a threadbare sweat suit and holey socks, with her hair scattered haphazardly atop her head. An ashtray full of rancid cigarette butts added to her despondency. Under stress, she’d chucked the idea of quitting, at least for now. Since returning from New York, after learning that she’d been passed over for the part on Broadway, she’d descended into the depths of despair. A stubborn streak was the only thing that kept her from throwing in the towel. That and the fact that she had nowhere to go.

  Flipping through the trades she found herself thankful that at least Paulette was back in New York for the reading of her grandmother’s will. In Gillian’s current mood, she wasn’t certain she could stomach an episode of The Paulette Show. Just as Gillian was polishing off the last of a box of chocolate-covered turtles, the phone rang. She checked caller ID and saw that the name that appeared was that of one of the best casting agencies in the business. With some vigor she tugged at her hair, trying to give it a semblance of shape, brushed away the crumbs of chocolate from her sweatshirt, and sat up straight, as if the caller could actually see her through the telephone. She took several deep breaths, waiting for the phone to ring at least four times. Though she was truly desperate, she didn’t want to seem anxious.

  “Hello?”

  “May I speak to Gillian Tillman, please?” The female voice on the other end of the line sounded crisp and ve
ry professional.

  “This is Gillian.” Her tone was nonchalant, but aware; supremely confident, but not arrogant. She wryly noted the absurd, twisted psychology needed simply to pick up the phone in this crazy place called Hollywood.

  “Hi, Gillian, I’m Annette White’s assistant, Evelyn, from Perfect Fit Casting Agency.” The woman’s voice rose at the end of her sentence, making her statement sound like a question. “You were referred to us for a pilot we’re doing, and I called to see if you might come in this afternoon for an audition.”

  “Can you tell me a little bit about the project?” At this point Gillian would have taken a job advertising a vaginal lubricant, she so desperately needed money, but it was always smart not to appear as desperate as you really were.

  “Of course,” the woman replied, as though she had actually been planning to tell her all about the project, when in fact she was acutely aware that there were so few roles available for black actresses that she felt no need whatsoever to sell the project. It was common knowledge that things were definitely harder for black female actresses than for black male actors, partly because once a black male actor went mainstream, one of the first things he demanded, in order to increase his crossover appeal, was nonblack female leads—Hispanic, white, or Asian, anything but a sister. So most black actresses would take anything and be delighted to get it.

  “It’s a pilot for a situation dramedy about three African American girls who share an apartment in Harlem. One is a struggling secretary trying to make a way for her three kids, all by different fathers, who are now being raised by her mother in Alabama. The second character is a party girl—you know the type—always looking for Mr. Right. And the third is the part you’d audition for. Her name is Shaniqua; she’s the voice of reason for the three girls. You know, a real ball buster, a no-nonsense girl who’s grown up with hard knocks, and…”

  By now Gillian had zoned out creatively. How many times did white studio executives have to resurrect that same played-out, trifling, head-swiveling, hand-on-hip, finger-pointing, tired-ass black female character?

  “…so, we thought you might be good for the part,” she sang, clearly pleased with the story she’d outlined.

  Why, because I’m black?

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, I was just thinking.”

  “Are you interested?” the woman asked, not nearly as confident as she’d been at the beginning of the call.

  Gillian was itching to give this woman a piece of her mind, but her survival instinct kicked in. She’d been living in L.A. for over two months now and hadn’t made a dime and, more urgently, she was sick of being trapped in this apartment with Paulette. Having spent a chunk of her remaining money on a piece-of-shit car, she’d left her bank account precariously low.

  “The part sounds interesting, and I’d love to audition for it.” The actress in her had indeed surfaced; she’d even managed to muster some degree of enthusiasm into her voice.

  “Great—if you could be here by two…”

  Gillian jotted down the address and tried hard to motivate herself to really want this awful-sounding role.

  The casting agency was full of the typical assortment of L.A. black girls who were eager for fame and fortune. They generally fell into three categories: The but-everyone-tells-me-I’m-so-pretty girl, who truly believed that straight hair, good skin, a pretty face, and a bright smile made her predestined for the big screen, talent notwithstanding. Then there was the overcompensator. She was the one who fell short in a major category while growing up, and quickly learned to overcompensate for this self-perceived deficiency by excelling in another area, such as a cutting wit, biting humor, Einstein smarts, or simply being the provider of the best blow job, and any one of those skills could take you somewhere in L.A. The third and most pervasive category was the fix-it-quick girl, who simply eliminated or corrected anything that God forgot to, through skin bleaching, boob implanting, hair weaving, nose chiseling, face-lifting or the most common: creating from scratch a fake, and usually annoying, personality.

  Girls like Gillian were few and far between in L.A.; she was beautiful, but not preoccupied with it, intelligent—a word not necessarily synonymous with “actress”—and serious about her craft. When she walked into the holding room, instinctively the others knew that she was not of their ilk. Eyes were cut, weaves flung, and attitudes dispensed, while Gillian sat alone in a corner reading the script that the receptionist had given her. Having survived the divas on Broadway, both male and female, Gillian was completely unfazed by the onslaught of negative energy. When her name was finally called she followed an assistant into the inner office, with several pairs of eyes boring deeply into her back.

  The reading room was set up with a small stage and two rows of chairs, which at present accommodated the casting agent, the director, the producer, and their assorted assistants. Before she could mount the stage, directions were barked at her from the first row.

  “Read the first line and give it lots of ’tude.” This came from the director, a baby-faced white boy—or, more correctly, Jewish—who had only minutes of experience in the business, but was male, of the correct persuasion, and connected.

  Gillian put her backpack at the side of the makeshift stage, walked to the center, and made herself focus on the material and her delivery. She’d read the lines, but it took an act of sheer will for her to speak them. Still, she swallowed her pride and said, “Girl, you know better than to lie down with dogs, ’cause you always gonna wake up with a buncha fleas.”

  The director, producer, and Annette, the casting agent, all looked at her strangely. Finally the director spoke up. “That was okay, but I need you to be more”—he gesticulated, struggling to find the word—“…black.” As he said this with a straight face, he even had the nerve to cross his hands, homeboy style.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. Given who I am, I’m not sure it’s possible to be more or less black. I am black.” Gillian struggled to keep an even tone, though she could feel a fire kindling in the pit of her stomach.

  “Ya know what I mean?” he said with the cadence of a rapper. “Just don’t speak as clearly. You know, act black. Give a little neck action and some ghetto attitude.” He and the producer exchanged a little chuckle between them.

  That did it. “If you think that’s what being black is, then I suggest that instead of producing a sitcom you simply put on a minstrel show. You know, get some white-faced, shuffling black people to tap-dance across the stage for you. Or better yet,” she said, her voice steadily rising, “just get a plain ol’ monkey and an organ grinder. That should do it!” She yanked her bag from the floor and stormed out of the room, leaving her small audience truly baffled.

  She was a blur going through the reception of wannabes, all anxious, eager, and willing to snatch any crumb thrown their way.

  Gillian was now sure that moving to L.A. had been a mistake; the only question was what to do now? She supposed that she could tuck her tail between her legs and slither back to New York again, hoping to pick up where she left off, or maybe she should do what most everybody else in the world did: get a real job. The thought of that was physically nauseating. She was unable to envision herself sitting behind a desk from nine to five. Besides, her catwalking and acting skills didn’t necessarily transfer to corporate America, even when accompanied by an undergraduate degree from Brown University.

  She cursed all the way up the 405 to Wilshire, and barely heard the phone when it rang. When she saw the caller ID it occurred to her not to answer it, but when she considered that the world wasn’t beating a path to her door, she decided to pick up.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Gillian.” It was Brandon Russell on the line.

  “Hi.” She was somewhat surprised to hear from him. He’d called a couple of times since they’d met at the Ivy, and she’d promptly blown him off
on each occasion. Gillian was sure that he would have given up by now; a man like Brandon must have a full stable of girls, and she wasn’t interested in becoming part of his herd.

  “Are you okay? You sound a little tense.”

  “Not exactly the best day I’ve had.” Actually, she hadn’t had any good days since moving here. She didn’t like L.A.—not the people, not the energy, not the seven days a week of sunshine. There was no texture in Los Angeles; everybody was a version of the same person, and to top it off, each day even looked like the one before it!

  “Well, you’re talking to the right guy. I called to invite you to a cocktail party tonight. It’ll be full of film people.” When she didn’t respond right away, he continued, “I apologize for the short notice. I hadn’t planned to go—thought I’d be out of town—but a couple of meetings were rescheduled, so here I am. How ’bout it?”

  Part of her wanted to say no and go home and crawl between the sheets with another box of chocolates, but Gillian wasn’t a quitter, so she accepted his invitation. Why not? She realized after that horried casting call that it would take more than a contact sheet, a so-so agent, and a good résumé to get any decent work in this town. Worst case, she’d go with him to this fancy Hollywood cocktail party, hopefully meet some interesting people, and maybe even make a few industry contacts.

  Before they hung up Brandon said, “I have a quick question for you. Remember when our bags were swapped at the airport?”

  How could she forget? That was how they’d met. “Of course.”

  “When you opened my bag, did you see a flash drive in it?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I opened the suitcase, saw that the clothes weren’t mine, and called you right away.”

  “Okay, babe; I’ll see you later on.”

  She raced home as quickly as L.A.’s inexplicable, barely creeping traffic would allow. She called Lauren immediately.