by Denise Dietz
She had earned Drew, damn it, and she had the perfect plan for making him obey.
* * * * *
The fire started on the first floor, one floor above the cast mural. It began as an infant, teething on Vance Booker’s résumés and photographs. Then it crawled toward the critique room.
Directly above the fire was Maxine’s office. It had once been a sound stage for silent films and the uneven walls looked as if they’d been erected by the same animator who created Roadrunner cartoons. Covering Maxine’s desk top were scripts, anchored by remnants of pastrami on rye, a polystyrene cup of potato salad, and a garlic pickle. Abandoning Emmy-Immy, retrieving the pickle, Maxine pictured Drew again. Then she closed her eyes and sucked on the pickle.
Below, the fire skipped early childhood and grew a punk-rock hairdo. It possessed a teen’s eclectic appetite, consuming several items before it regurgitated Stephen King. Then, slithering backwards through the exit, the fire paused in the hallway and rummaged around for more food. Anorexic, it dieted and almost died. Gasping for breath, it discovered a pile of newspapers stacked in an open doorway. Saturday’s comics beckoned. The fire nibbled Peanuts.
Above, Maxine glanced toward the window used by long-ago projectionists. Darkness cloaked shelves filled with cellulose film.
As she focused on the wall opposite the projection room, she pictured Drew’s taut butt.
With a smug smile, she returned her gaze to the projectionist’s window.
* * * * *
After devouring the comics, the fire swiftly chewed up sports pages, an editorial deploring the U.S. invasion of Grenada, and President Reagan atop a horse. Still hungry, the fire traveled inside the doorway and discovered a closet. A pyramid of cheap toilet tissue enhanced the back wall.
* * * * *
Drew had better obey me or I’ll blacklist Anissa, Maxine mused. She had file folders in cans of film, hidden inside the projection room, where no one would ever find them. The files contained photographs of Big Stars in compromising positions. If Drew wouldn’t compromise, if he continued to defy her, she’d sell the photos.
Kathleen Kaye, bless her heart, had saved one set of Anissa Cartier photos, which she’d happily sold to Maxine. Wouldn’t an exposé rag love to get their grubby paws on those pictures?
Then there was Buzzy Beeson, sly sleaze. Buzzy wasn’t a bad director, considering that his camera had been hidden behind the hotel’s drapes. And Buzzy, needing cash badly, had sold his Anissa weekend to Maxine. If Drew disobeyed her, Anissa would be washed up. Because viewers were fickle and the industry was cruel and self-serving—just like Maxine Graham.
* * * * *
Below, the fire grew into adulthood, danced up the supply closet wall, lapped at the ceiling’s paint, and snaked through microscopic floor-cracks. Discovering dessert, its hissing voice became a roar of approval.
* * * * *
Once again, Maxine gazed dreamily at the white wall opposite the projection room. A pattern of light flickered. Startled, she jumped to her feet, turned, and stared at the projectionist’s window. This time, instead of darkness, she saw flames reaching high for cans of cellulose film.
Shit! The file folders! Maxine took one step forward.
The projection room exploded. Glass fragments flew across the office with the impetus of a missile. One shard severed an artery in Maxine’s neck. She fell, holding Emmy-Immy against her silent heart.
The fire licked its long fingers and searched for another victim.
* * * * *
Connie Francis crooned, “Who’s sorry now-wow-wow?” Behind her, Buddy Holly
played the drums. “Panda Poe,” he sang. “Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty Panda Poe.”
The food delivery man waved a huge Kosher dill. “One ana two ana three,” he chanted, each word encased inside a champagne bubble, just like a Chien cartoon. Who’s sorry now segued into where-the-boys-are, and Connie Francis segued into Samantha Gold. Sami sang, “Some enchanted evening, when you fuck a stranger.”
Her marmalade bodice fell to her waist. “Oops,” she said, yanking her breasts up. “Oopsie-daisy, don’t fall down.”
“Don’t slump, Samantha,” Maxine Graham said.
Sami said, “Go to hell, do not pass go.”
“Merde! I meant it as a compliment,” Max said. “You can play the scene bare-assed naked if you want.”
“Okay.” Sami made an about-face. Her gown was backless and her butt shone in the spotlight. “Where the boys eat,” she sang, “someone waits for meow.”
Three paws rum-tum-tummed Buddy Holly’s drums. Even though Southern Comfort had needle-sharp claws, rather than high heels, he sounded like Maxine Graham on a bad-weather day. “Poor crippled cat,” Max said. “But if he’s cured, I’ll have to fire him. Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home, your house is on fire, your pussy will burn.”
Samantha said, “Don’t talk dirty.”
Delilah Gold sat on a chair in the middle of the stage. She looked like a harlequin— black makeup and white, diamond-shaped tears. “Doodah,” she said.
Delly lay in a heap, her face resting against the stuffed body of her doll. Her wig had slipped off and it lay on the floor. The messy strands looked like a Muppet who’d been caught in the crossfire from a drive-by shooting. “What a stupid dream,” she said.
Buddy Holly. Maxine. Sami. Southern Comfort. She tried to fit the jumbled images together but her brain felt too muzzy.
She needed a nicotine fix, but her box of matches and pack of cigarettes were missing. Had she smoked them all? She couldn’t remember. Rising, she yawned, coughed, stretched, coughed. The room was foggy, the air stinky with the odor of singed material and burnt paper.
She rubbed her eyes free from drugged sleep and coughed for the third time.
Oh, no! Scooping up her rag doll, she ran. Outside the critique room, a charred trail marred the hallway carpeting and smoke billowed from a supply closet.
She climbed the stairs two at a time, but halted when she heard the sound of a thunderous explosion. The walls shook. So did the floor.
Everybody in New York had warned her about earthquakes
“Panda’s scared,” she whimpered. “Humpty Dumpty told Delly something bad would happen.”
Anchoring the doll beneath her arm, she covered her ears with her hands. Somehow, she reached the second floor, stumbled down the hallway, and came to another halt.
“Look, dolly, flames. The hospital’s on fire. Thank God it’s not an earthquake. Oh, no! Panda’s trapped. But Judith promised Panda wouldn’t get killed in the fire. Did Judith change her mind? Silly Panda. This fire’s make-believe. They don’t use real fire on TV. Delly should complain to Peter because the smoke is making Panda cough. Where are the cameras?”
Panda’s on the wrong floor! That’s why Peter’s cameras are missing.
Ignoring the flames that lapped at her sneakers, Delly sidled up to an emergency exit. With an almost superhuman effort, she managed to open the heavy steel door. Then she paused on the stairwell, pressing dolly against her stomach.
“Panda has a tummy ache, Dr. Marsh. Peter, please cut this scene.”
Despite painful spasms, Delly grasped the railing and climbed higher. She tried the door to the main studio but it was jammed. Maybe the vultures were trying to escape. Maybe they blocked the entrance. Did Maxine sit inside her sky-booth, surrounded by soaring, grinning grid-vultures?
“Oh, no. Max’ll be mad. Panda’s supposed to be in the fire while Charl steals a nurse’s uniform.” Delly wiped at her tears with the doll’s pinafore. “Oh, wait, I know. Judith changed the script and Panda’s getting married to Cal. Didn’t Judith once say that Panda and Cal would fall in love?”
Charl’s trapped in the fire.
Panda’s gonna get married.
Maxine said the wedding was outside.
Delly reached the top step. She pushed at another steel door. It opened, and she found herself on the roof. Looking up, she chanted, “Star li
ght, star bright, first star I see tonight—”
What else had Maxine said? Oh, yeah. Something about Cal and Charl getting married under the stars. Carefully placing her rag doll on the roof’s asphalt surface, Delly sank to her knees and clasped her hands together. “I, Pandora, take thee, Cal, to be my husband, for richer or poorer, until death . . . until death . . .”
Wait a sec. Maxine said Cal and Charl, not Cal and Panda. Too late. Cal and Panda were married, which meant Cal couldn’t marry Charl until death do us part, or death threw a party, or something like that.
Where’s my script?
Where’s the prompter?
Where’s the camera?
Where is everybody?
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Audi had developed a bronchial wheeze. Chugging up the driveway, it sputtered and stalled. Jon turned the ignition key, pressed down on the accelerator, and released the clutch petal, but he knew the car wouldn’t start again. Things were going well, financially. Maybe he should buy a new car, a matching Rabbit convertible. Twin bunnies. No, definitely not twins. He’d find a small pickup to cart Delly’s auction antiques. That would save them money in the long run.
“We’ll turn you into a planter,” Jon told the Audi. Then, whistling a discordant tune, he unlocked the front door, entered, and saw the piano. What the hell!
A burglar? Christ, was he nuts? Why would a burglar smash the piano but ignore the TV, VCR and computer? Someone high on drugs? Someone who had been interrupted while robbing the house? Someone still inside the house?
Furtively making his way down the hallway, Jon spied a hatchet.
“I’m armed, you bastard!” he shouted, grasping the tool’s handle and inching open the guest room door.
Sinbad the parrot, freed from his cage, perched on top of the curtain rod. Feathers decorated the floor and bedspread. Had someone tried to kill Samantha’s bird? Why?
The phone rang.
Jon slammed the guest room door shut, quickly scanned the bathroom and master bedroom, then ran back into the living room and grabbed the receiver.
Anissa’s voice gushed a jumble of words.
“Slow down, honey,” Jon pleaded.
Drew’s voice, calm and steady, took over. “We were watching TV,” he said, “while waiting for Delly to call. Anissa invited her—and you, of course—for supper tonight. There was a news bulletin, a fire at the Morning Star studio.”
“Is it bad?”
“The worst damage is on one floor. They have it contained, practically out. Smoke—”
Jon heard a thunk—had Drew dropped the phone?—then Anissa’s voice again.
“The old projection room exploded,” she said. “Delly—”
“What about Delly?” Traveling the length of the cord, Jon reached for the TV knob.
“She was at the studio when I left this afternoon. I . . . Drew, tell him.”
“Jon, Delly’s on the roof of the building.”
“The roof?” He focused on the TV screen. Smoke poured from studio windows. A small figure posed on the roof’s edge. “Why doesn’t she come down? Is she hurt? Scared?”
“They say she’s threatening to jump. Anissa and I were about to leave when we decided to call you one more—”
“I’m on my way. Drew, wait! My car won’t start.”
“We’ll swing around and pick you up. Stand outside. Every minute counts.”
With a shaky hand, Jon hung up the receiver. Staring at the hatchet, he wanted to smash the TV screen. If he did, maybe the image of Delly would fade and she’d be safe at home.
Safe? He glanced toward the ruined piano, saw the shattered doll. Its eyes were missing, its nose was broken, its mouth oozed porcelain, and it looked like a corpse.
* * * * *
Drew double-parked. With Anissa and Jon, he quickly wove through the gawking spectators, the fire engines, the police cars, and an old man who looked up at the building and cupped his mouth with liver-spotted hands. “Jesus loves you!” the old man shouted.
A cop restrained the two actors and Jon at the security booth.
“I know the girl on the roof,” Jon said.
“Sure, buddy. Step behind the ropes.”
“Miss Anissa, Mr. Drew,” Henry cried. “They say Miss Delly wants to jump.”
“Tell the police we came to help,” Anissa said.
“It’s all right, these people are her friends,” Henry said, but Jon had already pushed his way through and sprinted for the studio entrance.
Drew and Anissa followed.
More police congregated on the roof. Drew stopped to explain while Jon continued running.
Delly’s pink blouse and green cords were black with soot. Only her glazed eyes and the doll seemed free from carbon grime.
“Go ’way!” she screamed. “Go ’way or I’ll jump!”
“Honey, it’s me, Jon,” he said, making a desperate effort to restrain himself. Because he wanted nothing more than to finish his journey across the roof and gather Delly into his arms. “I came to take you home.”
“Panda can’t go home. Maxine said so.”
Jon stepped forward as Delly moved closer to the roof’s edge. “Honey, let’s talk. I love you.”
“Panda’s tired of talking. Blah, blah, blah. It doesn’t do any good. No one listens.”
“I’m listening. Tell me why you want to jump.”
On the ground, firemen set up tall ladders. The crowd buzzed like a swarm of mosquitoes—insects collected by a special effects crew for the climatic horror movie scene. A spotlight pierced the sooty sunset, and its bean illuminated Delly’s body.
The crowd cheered.
Delly gave a jerky bow, then shaded her eyes. “Make them turn it off!” she screamed. “Turn it off, turn it all off. Or Panda will fall. I swear she will.”
A cop spoke into an aerial transmitter and the light beam dipped away.
“Why do you want to jump?” Jon repeated.
“Panda will get her name in the news. Hollywood has respect for the dead. And Sami can’t do it better.”
“But we made plans to fly to Chicago for Thanksgiving, remember? Don’t you want to see your mother?”
“I was going to tell her about the baby.”
“Delly, if you jump you’ll lose your baby,” Anissa said.
Jon said, “What baby?”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Oh my God! She didn’t tell me! Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She promised she’d tell you tonight. Delly, did you hear me? You’ll lose your baby.”
“Too late, Charl.” Raising her arms, stretching them out like wings, Delly moved closer to the roof’s edge. The doll dangled from her fingertips.
“No!” Jon shouted.
Dropping her arms, Delly maneuvered one leg over a raised cornice. Then she stood there, poised like a ballerina about to arabesque.
“Let me try,” Drew said. Thrusting his shaking hands inside his jeans pocket, he smiled. “Hello, Pandora.”
“Hi, Cal. What are you doing here?”
“I came to visit you.”
“Charl’s over there, Cal.”
“I know, but I came to see you. I love you very much.”
“I love you too, Cal.” Delly pressed the doll against her stomach. “Panda’s sick, Cal. Maxine said if she’s not sick there is no Panda. But you can tell Max that Panda’s really sick. It’s not pretend. Her tummy hurts.”
“Maybe you’d feel better if you gave me a hello-hug?”
“Panda can’t hug you, Cal.”
“Why not?”
“Panda has to fall off the roof.”
“No!” Jon shouted, moving forward.
“Hush,” Anissa said, holding him back.
Drew said, “Why do you have to fall, Panda?”
“Because it’s in the script.”
“It’s not in my script.”
“Yours is different. Judith wrote a new script for Panda. Panda let Judith tickle
her so she wrote a special part. Topher tickled Panda, too, but she slapped his face. He was so mad he lost his teeth so he couldn’t talk to Maxine. Delly talked to Maxine, but she said Sami’s gonna’ sing on Morning Star. Did you hear me, Cal? Sami’s gonna’ be on Delly’s show. The Gold sisters, da-dum.”
“Panda, listen. If you jump, you’ll hurt the doll.”
“My baby, Cal?”
“Yes. Your baby. Her insides will come out.”
“I’ll land first. My baby can be on top.”
“People who fall turn somersaults. You might land on top of your baby. You might even crush your baby.”
“That’s true, Cal. What should Panda do?”
“She should let Cal take care of her baby.”
Delly lowered her leg to the asphalt. She extended her arm, then pulled it back, cradling the rag doll against her breasts. “You won’t grab Panda, will you? She has to jump. Hollywood respects the dead.”
“I won’t grab. I promise. You can trust me, Panda.”
“Charl says I shouldn’t trust anybody.”
“She didn’t mean me. Charl trusts me.”
“No. She only trusts Panda. She said so. Charl tells Panda all her secrets, not Cal. She didn’t tell Cal about—”
“Hannah? About escaping from the hospital in a nurse’s uniform? About the knife?”
“Charl did tell you. Charl must trust you, Cal.”
“That’s right, Panda. Let me have your baby.”
“Okay.” Delly took a few steps toward Drew.
Slowly, he removed one hand from his pocket and stroked the doll’s carroty wool strands. “What a pretty baby,” he said.
“Take good care of her, Cal.”
“Yes. I will.” Grabbing Delly’s wrist, he pulled her close. She struggled wildly.
Jon ran forward, placed his hands underneath her knees, and swung her up into his arms. Then he carried her away from the roof’s edge. “Her sneakers are burned,” he moaned, “and her pants are covered with blood.”
“She’s having a miscarriage,” Anissa said. “Oh, God!”
Delly stopped struggling when a cop covered her body with a blanket. From Jon’s arms, she twisted her head and stared at Drew. “I trusted you, Cal,” she said, then closed her eyes and slumped against Jon’s chest.
