by Denise Dietz
Samantha sang.
Monty barked.
Sinbad squawked.
And Delly slept, curled up on the bed where George had supposedly screwed Martha.
Chapter Twenty-One
Delly didn’t quit the show.
“I’m glad you confided in me first,” Anissa said, following Monday’s taping. “Play the story line to its conclusion and audition for other parts while you’re still employed.”
Delly slanted a glance toward her friend. Anissa looked radiant, glowing from the inside out. Her scene this morning with Drew—wow! Even Maxine, seated inside her booth at the end of the vulture grids . . . even Maxine had boomed, “That’s friggin’ fantastic, Charl!” Something had happened over the weekend, thought Delly, something friggin’ fantastic.
“You don’t understand,” she said, desperate to explain, afraid she might lose Anissa’s friendship if she did.
“Yes I do, Delly. Everybody’s restless.”
Like poison ivy, Drew’s movie of the week had infected cast members with dreams of prime-time maybes. They were congratulatory, yet behind Drew’s back they itched and bitched. Except Anissa, who seemed to thrive on the daily grind, who claimed her ascension to soap stardom was “hereditary.”
Ordinarily, Delly would have itched along with the others. But today she was too consumed with indecision.
Should Pandora tell Charl about Beverlee and Mayella?
What if she did, and what if Charl mentioned Little Boy Blue and Man In The Moon to Echo? Delly could imagine Echo’s knife-tongue slashing.
Maybe it was better to keep her lips sealed, keep on playing Pandora, quell all rumors. At any rate, she wanted to forget Saturday night—a horrible dream.
Reality was Samantha.
Audition musicians arrived in endless rotation. Delly’s small house throbbed with sound. Beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays littered every surface. Delly wished she could transport her valuable antiques to Lady Nan’s mansion.
Samantha wanted to call her group Little Toot and the Engineers.
“Remember our favorite kid story, Dell?” she said, spooning yogurt between her glossy lips. “Daddy always read it out loud before we went to sleep, the story about the engine who kept saying, ‘I think I can, I think I can.’ ”
“Little Toot was a tugboat,” Delly said.
“Toot has certain connotations.” Jon sipped his breakfast coffee. “You’d lose mass appeal.”
“To hell with mass appeal. Drew’s father started with a cult following.” Samantha’s eyes glittered. “Drew Flory. That’s another score I have to settle.” She shook her mane of palomino hair. “Never mind. Only kidding. Water under the bridge.”
“Drop the name Toot,” said Jon, “and I’ll ask Drew to call his father. Maybe Andrew Florentino can devise a comic strip featuring your group. Drew said Chien once sang with the Temptations. Or was it the Beatles?”
“Little Toot was a tugboat,” Delly said. “The little engine who could didn’t have a name.”
“Okay, Jon.” Samantha pouted prettily. “I’ll call myself Samantha and the Engineers. It’s a bit innocuous, but I’ll know what it really means. For the record, toot’s not so bad. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not into drugs. Singing’s my turn-on. Haven’t you heard me sing when I—”
“Take a shower. Me, too. Your sister says I sound like Tarzan.” Thumping his chest, he gave a Weismuller whoop.
Delly waited for Jon to voice objections over the audition invasion, but he remained amused and agreeable as he tracked down possible arrangers and played host to the influx of applicants.
Samantha made her selection on a Thursday night. She sat next to Jon, an embroidered pillow wedged between her lower back and the back of the couch. “Piano, FDR,” she said.
“Absolutely.” Jon turned toward Delly, who slumped in her director’s chair. “His real name is Franklin Delano Roosevelt Orowitz. Swears his parents named him that, hoping he’d become President. He can barely reach the piano petals and he wears Elton John sunglasses. Would you fetch us some popcorn, honey?”
“I’m not Montalban. Fetch it yourself.”
“Poor Dell,” said Samantha. “She feels left out.”
“I do not.”
On his way to the kitchen, Jon patted her head.
Damn, he does think I’m Sami’s rat-dog!
“I can’t make up my mind about the drummer,” said Samantha, upon Jon’s return.
“That woman drummer was—what’s your word? Marvy.”
“No, she’s not.” Samantha flicked her gold lighter, pursed her lips, and blew a cloud of cigarette smoke toward the light fixture. “I want an American drummer, and she’s Canadian.”
“That’s a stupid reason,” said Delly. “After all, Paul Anka’s Canadian.”
“Hey, it’s my band and I don’t want any friggin’ foreigners, okay?”
Jon nodded, but Delly knew the real reason behind Sami’s decision. She didn’t want another female in the group.
Seated again, Jon said, “How about the guy with the black-rimmed glasses?”
“Buddy Holly’s ghost?” Samantha pressed her hand against her heart. “Do you think those marvy curls are natural?”
“Are you selecting musicians based on their gender, curls, or talent?”
“Give me a break, Dell. Jay Salerno’s a fine drummer. They call him ‘The Salamander.’ By the way, Jon, I told Barnum he was hired before he left the house.”
Delly remembered Barnum because she’d been home for his audition. Tall and dark, chocolate icing atop a devil’s food cake, Barnum was a master on the bass guitar. The gifted musician could play strings and horns, too.
Samantha tapped her chin with her index finger. “Do I need back-up vocalists?”
“No,” Jon said. “You’re good enough to carry it solo.”
“Well, if you insist. That leaves the lead guitarist. How about Rattlesnake?”
“Who?”
“Don’t you remember him, Jon? His real name is Steve something. He’s skinny. Wore a tight jumpsuit, warm-up socks and ballet slippers. Mick Jagger without the lips.”
“Rattlesnakes are poisonous,” Jon said with a grin.
And diamonds are hard, thought Delly. So why did she feel like bursting into tears? Because Delly Diamond was flawed while Samantha Gold shined? Because Pandora was on the skids while Little Toot chugged her way up the harbor’s watery mountain, reaching for her twin sister’s star?
Twin. Twin-kle. Twinkle, twinkle, brand new star.
“Rattlesnake would attract groupies,” Samantha said. “I’ll capture the men in the audience. Barnum will attract jigaboos and jackamammies—”
“Samantha Vivian Gold!”
“Do those words offend you, Dell darling?”
“Daddy would turn over in his grave, and I won’t tolerate racial slurs in my house.”
Samantha’s eyes sparked but she merely said, “Sorry,” then turned to Jon. “Rattlesnake’s young, cute, sexy. I’m singing Mom’s two ballads, of course, but I’ve developed a repertoire of 1950s standards. Women love to orgasm while they dance. I know I did.”
Delly blinked. “What do you mean, a repertoire? Good grief, Sami, have you landed a job already?”
“Didn’t Jon tell you? I’m the opening act for a jig . . . for a black comedian who scored high marks on the Jonah Wiggins Show.”
“Where?”
“Vegas.”
“How?”
“My New York singing teacher has clout.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Congratulations.” Delly forced what she hoped was sincere cheer into her voice.
“It’s probably a long shot. I mean, no one’s coming to see me.”
“Don’t put yourself down,” Jon said. “You have more talent . . .”
He paused, and Delly could almost swear his cheeks reddened. Had she missed something?
“Jon darling,” Samantha purre
d, “would you do me a big favor? I’ve found an old furnished house within my price range, big enough for me and the kids. I know it’s late but the agent gave me a key, and if you could drive me there, well, to be perfectly honest, I need a man’s opinion. Suppose I sign a rental agreement and the roof caves in or something? Want to come along for the ride, Dell?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got lines to study.”
“Would you fetch us a six-pack and a blanket, Jonny?”
“Why do you need a blanket?” asked Delly, watching Jon head for the hallway linen closet.
“In case we want to sit. The house is filthy.”
Jon returned. “I couldn’t find an extra blanket. Will a sleeping bag do? There’s one in the trunk of the car. Are you sure you don’t want to join us, Delly?”
“What the heck. I’ll tag along.”
“If the house is old and furnished,” he said, “there might be junk stored in the attic.”
“Junk?”
“Antiques.”
“Since when are my antiques junk?”
“Don’t fight,” Samantha said. “I almost forgot, Jonny. Bring along a can of bug spray, please. Is there such a thing as snake spray? The agent said snakes might be lurking.”
“Snakes?” Delly shuddered. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll stay here.”
“Well, if you insist.”
Delly caught her breath at the familiar refrain, and almost changed her mind again. Samantha looked like an illustration for Little Toot. Her eyes gleamed and cigarette smoke whooshed upwards, like the smoke from Little Toot’s smokestack.
“Goodbye, Dell,” she said. “Don’t wait up.”
Toot, toot, tootsie, good-bye.
Toot, toot, tootsie, don’t cry
* * * * *
Jon found an arranger, Garrison Smith, a Harry Belafonte look-alike. He took Carolyn Anne’s ballads and enhanced the haunting melodic themes.
Samantha turned thumbs down on the old house, which, she said, had bats as well as bugs.
FDR, Salamander, Barnum and Rattlesnake appeared at all hours for impromptu meals, not to mention impromptu practice sessions.
Montalban barked non-stop.
“Shut the fuck up,” squawked Sinbad.
Delly tried to ignore the damage to her beloved antiques. Even the new piano had cigarette burns.
“I’ll pay for repairs when this is over,” Samantha promised.
Say something, Jonny, Delly pleaded silently. But Jon took an office near Paramount to pen a new script while waiting for Duck Pond’s final edit. Publication of his novel was due soon, too.
The Morning Star story line peaked with the approach of Hannah’s demise. Scottie Fitzgerald swore that after her last scene, as corpse, she would leave for Italy to star in a film. Delly wondered if Italian restaurants served sushi. Fortunately, Italian spaghetti, western or otherwise, was flavored with Scottie’s two favorite spices: sex and garlic.
Drew’s TV movie had topped the ratings. Now his agent negotiated with CBS, submitting one of Jon’s old screenplays for the network’s consideration. Called The Groundhog Murders, Jon’s script involved a Jack-the-Ripper-ish killer. Drew would play the clue-hunting brother of a slain victim. Rumor had it that, if successful, Drew’s character might spin off into a series.
At long last, Samantha left for Vegas.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The hotel room was small. Guests probably didn’t spend much time sleeping, thought Delly, as she brushed her hair away from her forehead and anchored the thick strands with rhinestone-crusted barrettes.
No Pandora bangs. No ponytail. Tonight she’d watch her sister’s debut with adult panache.
Her dress was an ebony sheath, gathered in an abbreviated bustle. One strap kept the bodice from falling.
“Better not slump,” Jon teased, sitting on the edge of their bed. He wore a dark gray suit and his shirt matched the smoky blue of his eyes. “You look good enough to eat,” he added, patting the bedspread.
“Daddy used to tell Mom that,” Delly said somewhat wistfully as she paced back and forth between a mirrored dresser and a window.
“Nervous, honey?”
“You bet. I don’t know if Sami has butterflies, but I have a few competing for an Olympic medal in Lepidopteran Gymnastics.”
“Do you wish Delly Diamond was backstage warming up?”
“No way, Jonny. I couldn’t sing in front of an audience. I tried once, in the fifth grade. Disaster! Sami had to come to my rescue, and I’ve never forgotten the humiliation. If I was on stage tonight, I’d faint.”
“That’s bullshit! You’d be great. It’s like falling off a horse and climbing back on top again.”
“Maybe. But I didn’t climb then and it’s too late now.” Delly spun into a pirouette. “I can’t wait. Music by Carolyn Ann Gold. Mom should be here. I wish I hadn’t promised Sami I wouldn’t tell Mom.”
“Samantha thought about inviting your mother and stepfather, but she’s afraid she might fail.”
“She’s not afraid of failure, Jonny. Even if she mixed up the Little Engine and Little Toot, her basic philosophy is ‘I know I can.’ ”
“Samantha’s more vulnerable than you realize, Delly. She tries to hide it but she’s scared. That tough act is a facade.”
“Poor Samantha.”
“Aw, be fair. She’s worked very hard to make her Vegas debut a success.”
“I know.”
“Rehearsals day and night. She takes one break a day, to watch you on your soap. She thinks you’re terrific.”
“Yeah, sure. She watches Drew Flory and plots revenge.”
“Revenge? Why?”
“She used to date Drew a long time ago. Until he dumped her. I suppose I should warn him. Anissa, too.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.” Jon leaned back against his pillow. “Come here, you gorgeous thing.”
“No. Come here.”
“What are you doing?”
“Admiring the view.”
“So am I.”
“Thanks. But I meant the view from our window.” Delly sensed Jon’s approach.
“What view? It’s a parking lot.”
“Forget the cars and look at the sign. I once squinted up a movie marquee and pictured my name there. I never pictured ‘Samantha and the Engineers,’ but it’s almost the same. One day Sami’s name will appear above the comedian.”
“And my Diamond will shine from a movie marquee.” Circling her body with his arms, he dipped his hands beneath her bodice. “Why is it such a turn-on to make love in a hotel?”
“Because it’s new, different, and we don’t have to wash the sheets. Whoa, leave my breasts alone. They’re not slot machines. Do you expect coins to fall out from under my skirt?”
“Absolutely. Can you feel the handle on my slot machine? It’s tickling the cleft in your curvaceous butt.”
“We don’t have time.”
“Sure we do. We’ll skip dinner.”
“I’m all dressed up.”
“This is Vegas. We can play strip poker.” He pulled Delly over to the dresser and mimed dealing cards. “What do you have?”
She scooped up her imaginary cards and glanced down. “A full house,” she said, her voice smug.
“I dealt myself four aces, and four aces beats a full house. Take off your dress.” He mimed reshuffling. “What do you have?”
“Wait a sec. Let me hang up my new dress so it doesn’t wrinkle. Okay, I have four aces.”
“Too bad. I have a royal flush.”
“What? I thought four aces were best.”
“Nope. You lose. Take off your panties.” He shuffled and dealt. “What do you have?”
She brought her splayed hands closer to her face. “I’ve got a royal flush. Too bad. You lose.”
Jon removed his clothing, every stitch. “No,” he said. “I win.”
* * * * *
The hotel’s e
ntertainment hall, adjacent to the main casino, filled rapidly. The new comedian had been touted all week, and the celebrities who ringed the stage included Buzzy Beeson, Rex Smith, Mort Sahl, Jerry Lewis, Jonah Wiggins, Maryl Bradley, and Pat Huxley.
Thanks to Samantha, Jon and Delly sat up front, their small table close to Huxley’s party.
Delly watched a pregnant woman approach. Tall and fine-boned, her brown eyes tilted slightly at the corners and her red hair was bunned in back, circled by a string of pearls. She wore a simple white maternity dress, partially covered by a mauve silk scarf, and her expression was impish rather than beautiful.
“Hi, folks, we’ve never met,” she said. “I’m Maryl Bradley Wiggins. You’re Delly Diamond, Pandora on Drew’s soap. And you must be Jon Griffin. Drew thinks you’re a genius.”
“Drew’s the genius.” Jon stood and offered Maryl his chair.
“No, thanks. The show’s about to start. Jonah had a few days off so we decided to catch his comedian and sign up Samantha Gold, if she’s as good as the advance publicity says she is.”
“She is,” Delly said.
“That’s right. Anissa did mention that Samantha’s your sister. I believe I’ll sit after all.” Maryl slid onto Jon’s chair and folded her arms above her belly. “I’ll bet you’re excited, Delly.”
“She’s more nervous than excited,” Jon said.
“I know what you mean.” Maryl smiled. “Drew and I are thirteen months apart. Still, I can always tell when he’s up to something. We have this invisible bond.”
“Samantha and I are twins,” Delly said, “but we don’t seem to have that bond you’re talking about. I wish Anissa and Drew were here.”
“Me, too. A shame they had to shoot Dick Clark’s quiz show. Cal and Charl and a bunch of General Hospital soap stars, all for charity. Oops, Jonah’s beckoning. I’m not sure I’ll see you later. The baby usually sends me to bed early.” With a grace that belied her pregnancy, Maryl rose from the chair.
