Eisenhower College sprawled across three hundred verdant acres in the Mid Hudson Valley region of New York State. Founded in 1973 by the scion of precious metals magnate Thaddeus Cuthbert Eisenhower, the campus still retained the bulk of the insipid original architecture befitting of its conservative benefactors. A major renovation and expansion of the physical plant was now underway, however, thanks to generous endowments from some its graduates, including a few whose wealth from Wall Street hedge funds was later determined to have been acquired through fraudulent means, which landed them in federal lockups.
One of the state-of-the-art buildings near completion and slated to open for the fall semester would house the Department of Cinematic Arts and replace the present three-story brick structure no longer adequate for the burgeoning program. It was here on the steps of The Martini, as it was known (in Hollywood parlance, a “martini shot” is the name given to the final shot set-up of the day, but was also the surname of the film department’s first chairman, Enrico Martini, who was deported back to his native Sicily after allegations surfaced two years into his tenure that his green card had been obtained through a scam marriage to a woman with at least twenty other “husbands”) that Irv sat, waited, and checked his watch for the umpteenth time. Gone were the accoutrements of his audio trade. No boom pole or microphones. No mixer or loops of cable dangling from his belt. He could have been just another student in these waning days of the spring semester, soaking in the rays of the sun like so many others lounging on the grass inside the quad that denoted Eisenhower’s geographic center. It wasn’t until the door swung open behind him and Stan strolled out that the reason for his loitering became clear.
Stan had undergone a radical transformation, ditching his geek attire for a hipper makeover more in line with the universal casual style most au courant collegians had adopted. Jeans, sneakers, an open flannel shirt over a plain white T-shirt, and a woolen cap gave him the appearance of the film student that he was and not the pretentious director image he had cultivated. Any remnants of the “big cheese” persona were absent, now just a receding memory left far behind in a forlorn shack in the Catskill Mountains.
Stan exhaled with the kind of resignation that signaled less than positive news ahead as he parked himself next to Irv. “Well, so much for the Fatty Arbuckle award.”
“Professor Grimm didn’t believe you?” Irv asked.
“Would you?” Stan snorted. “Squirrel stew, fake zombies, a dead gangster’s treasure chest full of rocks, and an ax named Bad D?
“But the footage,” Irv pointed out. “You showed him, right?”
“Yeah, but it didn’t matter. To him, it was just a bunch of disjointed scenes that didn’t make any sense. You know what a stickler Grimm is for continuity and story arc. Anyway, he gave me an incomplete, which means I don’t flunk the course, but I also can’t graduate until I turn in a finished film.”
“So what happens to Letter 13?” Irv wondered.
“I don’t know,” Stan replied. “It is a pretty stupid title, don’t you think?”
“What do I know? I’m just the sound guy,” Irv said and reached into his
shirt pocket. “Almost forgot,” he added, as he handed a small piece of paper to Stan. “Thought you might want to have this.”
It was the note from the “treasure” chest. Stan unfolded it and chuckled as he perused the brazen directive one more time. “You sure did, Dutch, you sure did.”
They stood, clasped hands and wrapped an arm around each other in a brief hug. “Sorry, man,” Irv said, “it all really sucks.”
“Stan!”
Their attention was diverted toward the source of a familiar voice. Keisha waved and smiled as she angled their way along one of the sidewalks that radiated from the middle of the quad like spokes on a wagon wheel. “Yeah,” Stan admitted, fixated on her graceful form as she glided nearer, “but not everything is lost.”
He exchanged a fist bump with Irv and trotted off to meet up with his real-life leading lady. And when he took her hand, they walked away with no particular direction in mind, and Stanley Evan Heberling didn’t care one bit…
THE END
Dead As Dutch Page 34
