Anatomy of a Crossword (10 page)

“The writer?” Don answered with a laugh. “Nobody cares what the writer thinks. If the writer wants a particular actor for the part, that's the kiss of death for the poor sap. No, Lance only needs to impress Dean Ivald and Mr. Groslir. You watch. If Dean hires Lance to play Rosco … and things get tense, he'll kick Darlessen off the set long before he'd even consider canning diRusa.”

As if Dean had been reading the key grip's mind, he called out, “Shay, get back in here. We're going to take this from the top.” He then walked Chick toward the edge of the set closer to Belle and Don. “Look, Darlessen, this is only an audition. I want to get these two guys on tape so I can make a decision this afternoon. We're under a lot of pressure here. I want a new Rosco on the set tomorrow … Now, I understand you and Lance have some issues, and I understand the cause, but do me a favor … Take a hike until I get finished with him, okay? Just step into the parking lot for twenty-five minutes.”

Chick gritted his teeth. “I don't have any personal problems with diRusa. He's the one with the ex-girlfriend—”

“Do me a favor, Darlessen. Take your macho I-got-the-dame-and-you-don't attitude for walk. I need to see Lance work—”

“Hey—his loss, my gain … Debra is
not
an issue, as far as I'm concerned. If he doesn't know how to hold onto a woman, that's his fault. Besides, if he wants her back, he knows where to look.” As if he'd divulged confidences he hadn't wished to, Chick abruptly changed tack. “What I'm trying to point out, Ivald, is that the guy is a no-talent, hack actor and shouldn't have been auditioned in the first place. You want to get this over with quick? Send Lance home, hire Quinton Hanny, and let's get rolling right now.”

Dean pushed Chick farther from the set. “Are you going to leave pleasantly, or do I have to ask Mr. Schruko to—”

“I'm not going to be tossed off my own—”

“My
set, Darlessen.
Mine
. I'm the director, remember? And what I say, goes.”

“If it weren't for—”

“Don? Could you come over here a moment?” The director looked in the direction of his key grip.

Chick raised his hands in swift and hopeless frustration. “Okay … Okay … It's your call, Ivald, but remember one thing; I'm also the creator of this show, and if you go with diRusa, there's going to be repercussions. Count on it.” Then he turned on his heels and stormed off toward the exit.

Dean ran his fingers through his hair and stared down at Belle and the still-seated Don Schruko. “Do you know why Shakespeare wrote ‘Let's kill all the lawyers'?”

In unison they shook their heads.

“Because he was a
writer
, that's why. Anyone in their right mind, anyone else in the world, would have said, ‘Let's kill all the damn
writers
.'” Dean strode back to the center of the set, again placed a conspiratorial arm over Lance's shoulder, and began reiterating directions on how he wished the scene to be played.

“So, what happens now?” Belle murmured to Don.

“Beats me … But it's going to be interesting.” He paused, watching Dean put Lance through his paces. “This is how directors apprise the writers of who's in charge—by hiring the actors
they
want. On the other hand, Chick's also the creator and seems ready to duke it out … I guess you deduced he's now bedding down Lance's ex-flame, one Debra Marcollo—though the little birdies who flap through our sunny air say that may
not
be a match made in heaven, either.”

Belle raised an eyebrow at these casual references to what was obviously an intimate relationship. She didn't know how to respond, so instead nodded toward the producer who was standing on the opposite side of the set. “I noticed that Lance diRusa and Lew Groslir are pretty friendly.”

He smiled mirthlessly. “You've got a lot to learn, Belle. Lew's going to make both Quinton and Lance think he's their very best friend on earth. And you know why? Because he's going to have to negotiate a contract with one of their agents tonight. And whoever gets the call is going to stick it to him for every perk in the book, because they know Lew's trapped between the proverbial rock and a hard place. This is a situation every talent agent in Hollywood would kill for.” Don laughed quietly. “Hell, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that it was Lance's agent who rear-ended Greg Trafeo's MGA.”

Belle didn't respond, and the two sat quietly as Lance worked his way through the audition process. Then he was asked to leave by the south door of the studio, while Quinton Hanny approached through the north entrance. Again, the new actor bore an eerie resemblance to Rosco, although the impression was of gentler and less volatile man than Lance. True to Don Schruko's prediction, Lew Groslir greeted Quinton as if he were a long lost son.

Don nudged Belle. “I didn't put two and two together until just now, but it's going to be a real hoot if Quint gets this part. He was married to Ginger Bradmin seven or so years ago.”

“I don't know who she is,” Belle responded.

“She's been in a bunch of stuff … baby-doll voice like what's-her-name in that Jeff Bridges flick … Anyway, she's playing the wife at the country inn. The one whose husband gets murdered? I forget the gal's name.”

“Annie?”

“Right … So, if Quinton gets this part, he's going to have a few choice scenes with his ex-wife … and she ain't no Georgia peach, despite the cutesy diction.” Don chortled. “I'll have to be sure all potentially lethal objects are bolted in place. What those two went through during their divorce proceedings was the stuff of Holly wood lore.”

A stagehand passing quietly behind them stopped and crouched down to their level in order to hand Belle an envelope. “This is for you Ms. Graham. It just arrived by messenger.”

Belle said, “Thank you,” opened the envelope, and removed a crossword puzzle. She smiled as she turned to Don, a sense of happy accomplishment spreading across her face. “Here it is … the puzzle I constructed for the show … typeset and ready for its close-up.” She began to refold it and slide it back into the envelope when she noticed something was wrong. “This is odd …”

“What's odd?” Don asked.

“Well, it's the same grid that I created for the show, but all the clues are different. This isn't my puzzle, at all.”

GREETINGS!

Across

1. Classic roadster

4. Wolfed down

7. Mr. Guevara

10. Stargazer?

13. Mr. Brynner

14. Film speed

15. Parking area

16. Film speed

17. Greeting; part 1

20. ___to the stars

21. ___
la Douce

22. 
No Way
___

23. Greeting; part 2

24. Mr. Sinatra

26. Ambulance wkr.

27. Slippery one

28. Sunset, poetically

29. Inc. cousin

31. Greeting; part 3

34. 
Exodus
author

36. Return

37. LA. film sch.

40. Greeting; part 4

42. Korean soldier

43. Roger Miller hit

45. A Great Lake

46. Greeting; part 5

47. “The Greatest”

48. ___
of Innocence

51. Mr. Chaney

52. Space

54. Dipped out

56. Greeting; part 6

58. Guiness or Olivier

59. Cat call?

60. 
The___Commandments

61. Greeting; part 7

65. Brain wave recorder; abbr.

66. Layer

67. 
Long___Tomorrow

68. Geom. Fig.

69. Kildare & Casey; abbr.

70. Horse fodder

71. It's often inflated

72. One of D.C's 100

Down

1. 
Take___, please

2. War in France

3. Super hero

4. 
Much___About Nothing

5. Mr. Conway

6. Hollywood to Pasadena dir.

7. Hollywood power

8. Jack, Tim or Jennifer

9. LAX info

10. “You look___”

11. PDQ

12. Sonoma neighbor

18. When repeated, a Porter hit

19. Mr. Selleck

23. Belgrade native

25. 
Quincy
star

26. Cut film

27. Al Bundy portrayer

30. Elm, oak, or pine

32. Sgt. or cpl.

33. Hooded org.

35. Request enc.

36. Andrea___, of
The Perfect Storm

37. Security Co.

38. LAX overseer

39. Hints

41. 
The Parent___

44. H.S. Sub.

48. Wards off

49. Mr. Clooney

50. Winner of the first Emmy Award

52. George Steven's Oscar Winner

53. Mr. Carney

55. Latin love

56. Flower part

57. Garden annoyance

58. Mets' home

61. ___
Framed Roger Rabbit

62. Miss West

63. 66-Across output

64. Seduce

To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit
openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords

CHAPTER 10

The sun beat down on the asphalt pavement outside the studio's main door. The ultraviolet rays and intense heat seemed to pulse from the concrete walls of every box-like building on the lot, from the burning metal of each parked minivan and studio courtesy car, from the glass windshields, the dented trash receptacles, the terracotta tubs of panting flowers that emitted steam—if they'd been watered—or, if not, a parched dryness that smelled like death. There was nothing in the entire smog-laden arena that seemed remotely hospitable, or even slightly seductive or glamorous, to Chick Darlessen. He wondered why on earth he'd chosen his career, and the next second, pondered what he would to do if this final stab at The Big Time failed.
Thrown off the set
, he thought in disgust.
Sent packing while some preening prima donna put a no-talent piece of beefcake through his sorry paces … a hack, like lover-boy Lance diRusa, whose only “motivation” seemed to be how many starlets he could bed down
. Anatomy of a Crossword
belonged to Chick Darlessen! It was his creation! (Well, sort of …) And no one was going to take it
away from him
. Turning the corner, while fury, frustration, and fear made his eyelids jitter and his palms sweat, the reality of the situation—as well as the sight of a certain Wanda Jorcrof—stopped Darlessen cold in his tracks.

For a long moment, he simply couldn't speak. Neither did Wanda. Instead, she glared at him, her pigeon-toes planted firmly in blunt, stridently trendy thick-soled shoes, her bowl-cut hair almost bristling in its steely straightness. She crossed her arms over her ample chest and stood her ground, unaffected by the scorching heat beating down upon her boxy shoulders, or Darlessen's pointed stare.

“How did you get on this lot?” he finally demanded.

“Told the guard I needed to see you, Chickie. Told him we were working together—we were partners, and you were waiting for these rewrites.” She flapped a few sheets of paper in the air. “You needed these PDQ, ASAP, right?”

Chick opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed, and tried again. “No one phoned the set to say I had a visitor.” His throat felt as dry as sand.

“That's your problem—and their problem. Security a round here isn't in my jur-is-dic-tion.” She pronounced the word carefully, sounding out each syllable as if she were questioning its etymology.

Darlessen looked her over while he kept his distance. His manner seemed to indicate that he half expected Wanda Jorcrof to suddenly leap forward and knock him to the ground, a concept that would have made him laugh out loud on any other day.

“I'm busy. What do you want, Wanda?” As Chick asked the question, his eyes ducked furtively toward the door he'd just exited. Wanda was becoming a major pain in his neck.

“Only what I've always wanted. My share of the take. The twenty-five thousand I was promised … that I
earned
.”

Chick's glance dodged back and forth between the studio door and Wanda. “Why don't we find another place to talk? Somewhere out of the sun.”

“You don't want to be seen with me? Is that it—?”

“No … no … Wanda … It's just that it's so hot standing here.”

“It's gonna get hotter if I don't get my cash.”

“There's nothing I can do—”

Her fiercesome expletive stopped the words in Darlessen's throat. “You can call McKenet!” she all but screamed. “Like you promised!”

“But it's not really his—”

“We're in this thing together, Darlessen! Whether you like remembering it or not!”

“Look, Wanda—”

“I need that twenty-five thou, Chickie. Not next week or next month. I need it now. I've been waiting since last frig-gin' August. Half a damn year.”