Anatomy of a Crossword (11 page)

Darlessen ran his dry tongue over his even dryer lips.

“I don't want any more games from you, Chickie. I don't want any more
word
games, either.” She gave him an evil look.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I think you know. Mr. Crossword Puzzle. Mr. Fancy Screenwriter … If it weren't for—”

“Look, Wanda … This isn't a good time or place to discuss—”

“It is for me.”

Darlessen, in his nervousness, kept talking as though she hadn't spoken. “But I want to help you, Wanda. I do. I know that money's important to you. Look, I've been there. I understand. I do … And I know you've had a longer wait than you should have had—”

“You can friggin' say that again—”

“But right now I've got to focus on potential script rewrites, and replacing an actor, and—”

“And a crossword—”

“That, too, Wanda …” Darlessen clenched and unclenched his sweaty hands. Again, he shot a worried glance toward the studio door.

Wanda Jorcrof followed his gaze; her expression turned even more merciless and malevolent. “If you want to get out of the heat, I'll step inside the studio with you—”

“No! Not there … What I mean is, we're in the midst of auditions right now. It's very hectic, and—”

“Did you get the Graham dame?”

Darlessen watched Wanda's mouth move. Coral-colored lipstick stuck to her teeth, her lips were as thin as razors. “Yes …” he finally admitted.

“So the impossible isn't impossible after all.” She stared at him with an expression he couldn't interpret, and he gazed numbly back. “I'll expect you to get me that money, Chickie. By this weekend. Whatever you have to do. Whether McKenet comes clean or not … It's in your hands. I want my twenty-five thou. Whatever it takes …
Whoever
it takes …” And then, Wanda miraculously turned around and walked toward a distant car.

In her wake, Darlessen was left panting for air. His new silk shirt was soaked through with sweat; his new Italian loafers, his new silk socks, the gabardine slacks that still retained the perfumed scent of the fancy shop on Rodeo Drive—everything felt dank and dirty and old. He turned to retrace his steps to the studio door, but as he did, Lance diRusa came barreling out, his auditioning script still clutched in his hand, the tweed jacket he'd worn as a “Rosco costume” clenched heavily in his fist.

He made an angry beeline for Chick. “You ruin this one for me, Darlessen, and you're toast,” he snarled.
“Anatomy
will be your swan song in this town.”

As with his previous confrontation, Chick was stunned into momentary silence.

“Toast, Darlessen,” Lance repeated while Chick at last found his voice.

“Don't threaten me, diRusa. I call the shots around here.
Anatomy
is my—”

“You're the writer, Darlessen, and that's it. Creator means nothing. You're a nobody. And if you get in my way, you're gonna be a very, very sorry nobody.”

CHAPTER 11

After unceremoniously dumping Belle off at her hotel in Santa Monica, at the end of what seemed an interminable day, Chick Darlessen opted to take out his many frustrations on the Porsche's gearbox and the asphalt of the Pacific Coast Highway, leaving a set of parallel black tire marks at each and every stop light along his way home. The early winter twilight had already darkened into night, and the exclusive beachside community in Malibu, where he and his current girlfriend were now renting a multimillion-dollar bungalow, was awash in pale, flickering lights that shone from the houses like beacons of welcome against the vastness of the inky ocean. It should have been a lovely scene, a picture-postcard scene. But Chick Darlessen scarcely noticed it; and if he did, it only produced more spasms of terror in his already jumpy stomach. How much were he and Debra shelling out per month for this quaint little shack? Correction: How much was he shelling out to keep the two of them in fancy digs and fancy togs? Debra Marcollo wasn't a woman to waste her days fretting over the disparity between income and expense.

Chick clenched his teeth.
Wanda Jorcrof
, he suddenly thought,
Wanda and her twenty-five thousand
. What was he supposed to do about that particular time bomb … or her weird reference to Belle Graham …? What was she getting at? What had she discovered? The questions made Darlessen's clenched teeth ache in his jaw and his forehead knot in pain. And what was he supposed to do about the McKenet situation? What did Wanda expect him to do? And Lance? What about that particularly sorry piece of work? The thought of having to work with that “yo-yo” only made Chick's teeth hurt more.

Careening along the sand-blown lane that led to his garage, and thence into his ocean-front rental, Darlessen's bouncing headlamps picked up a female form dodging into the shadows of a neighboring property. He nearly screamed aloud in his shock and dismay. Instead, he pounded the horn, slammed on the brakes, and hit the automatic lock button that shut down exterior access to his car with a series of pinging thunks. In the next second, he recognized the “prowler.” It was none other than his Debra, too scantily clad for the cold of a Malibu night, and by every appearance, three sheets to the wind.

She weaved up to the car, her eyes red and swollen, her mouth puffy from tears. “Someone's in the house, Chick,” she managed to gasp out. “They broke in … I got home from the gym … well, I had a couple of stops to make first, and then I, well, when I drove up, I noticed … 'Cause I know I beeped the garage door closed before I left, but it was open when I …” Her words disappeared into a fresh spate of crying—added to which were a couple of unladylike hiccups.

Darlessen swung open the car door and stepped out. He didn't want to. Instead, he wanted to drop the Porsche into reverse, take off, straight up the Pacific Coast Highway and never look back. Not deal with Debra Marcollo or Lance diRusa or Wanda Jorcrof or Dean Ivald or Don Schruko, or his own maxed-out credit cards, or Belle Graham or Stan McKenet or Lee Rennegor or any of the turmoil and trouble that seemed to bubble up out of every studio and every project in L.A. For a moment, Chick even cursed his dead uncle Bart, the gander that had left what had appeared to be the proverbial golden egg, but was now seeming more and more moldy and rotten.

“You're drunk, Debra,” Chick said. His tone was weary and unkind. “You promised me you were quitting all that.”

“I'm not drunk,” she insisted. “I'm upset, is all.” She clutched a fashionably short aqua sweatshirt against her shoulders. The remainder of her costume consisted of a matching sports bra and tights with lavender thong panties underneath. Her designer cross-trainer shoes were the only substantial part of the outfit. “And I'm cold … and I'm scared.” She looked up at the house's rear windows, an unlit room above the garage. “Someone's in there, Chick, I swear.”

“Did you call the cops?”

“I couldn't find my cell phone …” She sniffled and tugged at her sweatshirt.

“Not another one—”

“I'm sure it's in with my exercise stuff. Or back at the gym.”

“It's the third one this month, dearest.” It was not said with kindness.

“I'll find them Chickie, honey …”

Darlessen looked at her, shaking with chill and fear. He knew he should put his arms around her and warm and comfort her, but that was the last thing he wished to do.

“You can call nine-one-one from your car, Chickie.”

As soon as Debra voiced the suggestion, Darlessen recognized it for another situation he wanted to avoid. If someone had indeed broken into the house, he needed to determine why that person was there. Screenwriters who'd just gotten their first big break didn't possess anything worth stealing—except, perhaps, a new car and clean socks.

He turned to stare into the garage, dark and empty without Debra's 4x4, which she'd probably left farther up along the road once she saw the open door. From what little Chick could see, the garage looked unviolated and blank, as if Debra had merely sped off to her exercise class—or whatever else she did to occupy her days—and forgotten to beep the dang thing closed.
Like the lost cell phones
, he thought bitterly,
like the promise to lay off the booze and attend meetings
.

He stifled an angry sigh, and began walking toward the steps that led up to the front deck.

Debra clutched at him. “You're not going in there, are you, Chickie?”

He shook her off. “It merely looks like you forgot to close the garage door—”

“But I'm sure I—”

“Right.” Chick pounded up the stairs. Despite his prior statement, his heart was racing. He had a half-formed notion that if he were about to disturb a burglar, noise was imperative. The sound of approaching feet would give the person time to run away—probably down the garage stairs. “Go stand on the beach,” Chick yelled down to Debra, then paused on the deck until she wavered nervously into sight. “Near the overhead lamp, where you're easily visible. If there's a problem, just go down the beach until you find someone who's home.” Then he shouted at her again. “I'm going in!”

He twisted the knob. It was locked. He cursed, yanked his keys from his pocket, then turned the key until the door swung open. “Oh, Chickie, be careful …” he heard Debra moan from the beach, but he ignored her and whatever she was trying to say. He then strode into the bungalow and switched on every light as he walked along.

All appeared in order—as orderly as Debra habitually left it: the sitting/dining room, bedroom, kitchen, bath, the small rear alcove he used as an office. Nothing had been removed, nothing rearranged.

Chick found his level of irritation rising. He tromped down the rear steps and into the garage, flipped on the wall switch, and stared at the empty space. Then he methodically walked outside to his car and slowly drove it to its parking place. His heart was fluttering painfully, and his face felt engorged with misery and loathing.

Debra chose that inopportune moment to wander down the stairs. “I thought you'd driven off, Chickie. I heard the Porsche start up … I thought you'd left me …”

He climbed out of his car and slammed the door. “I should have I should have let you run back to Lance—or whomever his predecessor was.” He felt like striking the silly woman, and her cowed and now awkwardly sobered-up pose did nothing to diminish the intensity of the sensation.

Debra didn't respond. Instead, she climbed back up into the house, squaring her shoulders and lifting her head in an attitude Chick recognized as spoiling for a fight. “My 4 x 4's down the lane. The keys are in it.”

“Brilliant.” Darlessen stormed out and returned five minutes later.

With both vehicles now safely ensconced in the garage and the door closed for the night, Chick mounted the interior stairs. Sure enough, Debra was waiting for him, still in her gym clothes, still blue-white with cold. “I'm not stupid,” she said.

Chick didn't answer.

“I'm not stupid, and I'm not drunk.”

Again, Chick didn't reply, which was unwise because his silence clearly indicated his rejection of her opinion.

She glowered at him while standing taller, straighter, and more entrenched in her own defense. “And I don't care anything about Lance … not any more.”

“Well, he seems to think Otherwise—”

“You've started hanging around with him all of a sudden? What do you know about Lance?”

Chick's second mistake, mentioning diRusa's name, was compounded by a third. “He was auditioning for
Anatomy
today.” The words were out before Darlessen recognized the trap he'd set himself.

Debra grew deathly still, her pallid face turned whiter and then flared pink with fury. “You gave Lance an audition and not me!”

“Let's not go through the same old gripes and problems again, Debra.”

“You didn't let me audition!” she repeated. “You didn't even let me see the casting director, or submit a picture or anything!”

“There were no parts you were right for, Deb.” Too late, Chick's tone had become conciliatory. “Besides, Nils Spemick does the casting, not me.”

“Shay Henlee's ‘right' for your show, though? Ginger Bradmin's ‘right.'” Debra's voice was choked and challenging. “You didn't tell
them
they couldn't audition!”

“Shay Henlee's a star, Debra. She's a major talent. So's Ginger. They sell SUVs to soccer moms; demographics love them—”

“As opposed to me?! As opposed to me? I have no talent … or … or
demographics?”
Debra's clenched fists flew into the air while Chick, on the other side of the room, found himself ducking reflexively. “That person who called today said you were a skunk; a slime that went back on his word. And you are, Chick! You are!” Debra was now close to tears, but Darlessen was immediately on the alert.

“Who? Who was this who called?”

“Someone … I didn't write the name down. They said they'd been working on a project with you … I told them you were at the studio.” Debra flounced away and nearly threw herself into the bedroom. “What'd you do? Stiff someone else? Cut them out like you did me? And I bet you did, too! You're a creep, Chick Darlessen … What have you got going this time?”

Chick pursued her. “A man or a woman?” he demanded, but before Debra could reply, he piled on another question: “When did the call come in?”

“Sometime this morning, I guess … Maybe noon, I don't know …”

Chick grabbed Debra's shoulders, and spun her around until she was facing him. “And you said where I was?”

Looking into his face, Debra saw anger mingled with an emotion she recognized as terror. “What's wrong, Chickie?” she murmured. “Can't keep your lies in place? Who is this person?”