Anatomy of a Crossword (13 page)

Dean Ivald sat in leaden silence in his canvas director's chair. The strips of fabric that made up the seat and back seemed to be sagging more than usual under his unhappy weight. His long spine sagged, and his neck bent crookedly as he held his face in his hands and stared at the blackened screen of a teleprompter, as if in a near-comatose state. Once in a while his eyes flickered, suggesting that his misery might find an end and that he'd somehow miraculously discover a solution to his problems. Techies and make-up people tiptoed by as if they were edging their way through a minefield; they glanced at his defeated form but kept moving, as they shut down the set for the weekend. Eventually Ivald looked up at Don Schruko and mumbled, “Get me Nils.”

The key grip remained quiet, frightened, or perhaps unwilling to supply the next piece of bad news.

“Nils Spemick!” Dean bellowed, “Get down on this set immediately!”

“He's not here, Mr. Ivald,” Don Schruko said in almost a whisper.

“What do you mean he's not here? He's the casting director, for Pete's sake. Where the hell is he?”

“After Quinton Hanny's contract was negotiated, Nils decided to leave early for the weekend. I believe he said he was going to San Francisco.”

A bitter groan escaped Ivald's angry chest. “I am not waiting until next week to replace this old bat. I promise you I'm going to be rolling film on Monday morning—come hell or high water … with a new actress. I'll get my own mother in here from England if I have to. Phone Nils Spemick in San Francisco and tell him he's fired. Tell him never to return to Los Angeles, or I'll wring his scrawny neck.”

“That's my call, Dean,” Lew Groslir said as he approached the two men. “I hire, and I fire,” He was the picture of serenity and calm and was closely followed by a sleep-deprived Chick Darlessen.

“And nobody's firing Nils Spemick, not yet,” Lew continued. “We're going to need a little powwow. Bring us a couple of chairs, will you, Don? And a production schedule.”

“You got it, Mr. Groslir.”

Schruko retrieved two more canvas-backed chairs along with the schedule and placed them beside Dean. Then, knowing that these “powwows” never intended to include lesser personnel, he moved away and proceeded to patrol the perimeter like a sentry, keeping anyone from disturbing the lordly trio.

“I don't know if I can take much more if this,” Dean said. “What else can go wrong? My actors are dropping like flies.”

“Worse things could happen,” Lew offered as he glanced at the schedule. “Hmmm … It looks like those scenes at ‘White Caps' need to be in the can next week so we can strike that set and replace it with the barn set at the country inn.” Lew handed the production book to Darlessen. “Know any old ladies, Chickie?”

“Well … now that you mention it, and this may be a stretch, but I'll bet with enough make-up and a gray wig, my girlfriend could probably—”

“Debra Marcollo?” Dean said incredulously.

“It's worth a shot.”

“A shot to the head, maybe.” Dean ignored Chick altogether and spoke directly to Lew Groslir. “No. No. No. A million times, no, and I mean that. I let him have his way when he blackballed Lance diRusa. I hired Quint instead. Okay, I can live with that. Quint can act and he's solid. But I draw the line with Marcollo—doing anything! She's a lush, and she can't act her way out of a paper bag. I worked with her two years ago on a Chevy commercial and she ran a damn Tahoe over the craft services table … food everywhere … lunch ruined … We had to get an emergency ‘roach coach' sent onto the lot … Plus, she'll jump into bed with anything that moves. That's all I need—to have all my stage hands sniping at each other. Sorry, Chick, no offense meant.”

Darlessen's response was subdued; it wouldn't have pleased his girlfriend. “It was only a suggestion.”

“Well, we've got to move fast on this. Lew's right, we need to start rolling on the ‘White Caps' stuff Monday. What about your agent, Chick?”

“Lee Rennegor?”

“Yeah, have you seen his client list? Does he have any old battle-axes?” Lew tossed in.

“Forget it. His list of actresses is very short. And Lee's idea of an ancient woman is twenty-five. After that, he puts them out to farm.”

The three said nothing for nearly ten minutes, instead, making small clicking sounds with their mouths, tugging at their earlobes, chewing the insides of their lips, and drumming their fingernails on the wooden armrests of their chairs.

“Coffee?” Chick finally said, and stood.

Lew and Dean answered a simultaneous, “No,” and Chick sank back down in his seat. Another ten minutes of heavy thinking passed before Don Schruko advanced timidly.

“Excuse me, Mr. Groslir, but Miso Lane would like to show you something.”

“What is it?”

“He didn't say.”

The producer sighed impatiently. “Send him over, then. But tell him I only have a minute.”

Permitted into this embattled circle, Miso crouched on the floor between them. He then opened a large D ring notebook, which contained the numerous Polaroid photographs he'd taken in Massachusetts. They'd been organized as to location and placed in clear plastic sleeves.

“Listen, Miso,” Lew Groslir said in a slightly distracted manner, “the sets are set, so to speak. If anything needs to be added or changed, talk it over with Mr. Schruko or the prop master or scenic, but right now, this is crisis control central.”

Miso began waving his hands, and frenetically flipping through the pages of his notebook. He never said a word, giving Chick the impression he was watching a silent Harpo Marx routine. Finally Miso reached his many snapshots of Sara Crane Briephs. He glanced up to make certain he had the full attention of the three men, then turned the next six or seven pages very slowly. Each sheet had a half a dozen pictures of Sara.

“Okay, Miso,” Lew sighed irritably. “We've seen these. We know what she looks like. The point is, every actress her age is dead, gaga, or has a one-woman show on Broadway.”

“Wait!” Dean shouted. He stood and circled the others twice. “Wait, wait, wait. Miso's right … We just fly the real person out here. It's simple.”

Miso stood as well. He then slammed his notebook closed, said, “Bingo,” and left the set.

“She's not an actress, Dean,” Chick said, but at the same time he was thinking,
Hey, this might work
.

“Actress, schmactress, did you see my Kitty Krunchies commercial?”

Lew said, “No.”

Dean was flabbergasted. “I won a Clio for that one. Everyone saw it.”

“What's the point, Dean?”

“The point is, my good man, if I can get a performance out of a friggin' cat, I can get a performance out of that old babe.” He pointed toward the exiting Miso.

“If you think about it, it's not a bad PR hook, Lew …” Chick added.

“I'm very uneasy about this. I like working with professionals. You can count on them.”

Dean laughed. “Count on them for what? To put their face into a steering wheel? To hang out under falling stage equipment? It's not that big of a part, Lew. Believe me, I can coax a performance out of her. The right words … The encouraging gesture. And if we need to have Nan loop the voice in later, so be it.”

Groslir sighed again and glanced at the production schedule once more. “Okay, let's give it a shot. What have we got to lose?”

“Of course, she could say, ‘No,'” Dean offered. “Then we're right back where we started.”

“This is TV. Nobody says, ‘No' to TV.”

“Just in case …” Chick pulled his cell phone from his belt and tapped a number into the autodial. “Time to call in the big guns. I don't want to lose this one.”

The phone was answered after two rings, and Chick said, “Yeah, let me speak to Lee Rennegor.”

CHAPTER 14

“That's a crying shame about Nan DeDero. She's a real trooper, and she'll be missed, big-time. It's going to take a very, very, and I mean
very
special person to replace her.” Lee Rennegor said this with so much sincerity that even he was surprised at how genuine and sympathetic he sounded. “More than special … it's going to take a unique individual with truly unique gifts. Unparalleled, you might say.” No linguist, the agent was quickly running out of accolades with which to impress Belle. “An original, even.”

Seated at the metal desk of her makeshift studio office, she'd been penning a card to Rosco when Rennegor started his spiel. Belle would have left the set with one of the cast members, but Chick had insisted that he be the one to drive her back to Santa Monica, placing her now in the agent's direct line of fire.

“Lee Rennegor, here,” he said. “We haven't met yet. Please call me Lee.”

Looking up from the Kodachrome-bright picture-postcard of a red 1965 Mustang convertible sitting on the boardwalk of Venice Beach, Belle was surprised at the agent's wheedling tone, which simply didn't match his physical presence. He was a six-foot-eight man with a lean and fit body that cried out “personal trainer,” dark hair carefully combed into a ponytail, eyes semi-hidden behind azure-tinted glasses, and a pale blue Italian suit that probably cost well over two thousand dollars. When he sat on the edge of Belle's desk, his black alligator shoes remained firmly planted on the studio's concrete floor. Rennegor extended his hand to her and smiled. His teeth were almost too perfect to be true.

Belle shook the proffered hand, wondering whether or not to stand. In her cramped metal chair, her head was a good two feet below the agent's. He continued to grin down at her while Belle gazed upward, uncertain what had prompted the visit. “I'm waiting for Chick to finish his meeting with Mr. Groslir,” she said.

“Great kid, Chick. One of my best writers. A clever, clever guy. I've always known he'd go far.” Then, not being one to waste time on small talk, Rennegor got straight to the business at hand. “Like I said, a crying shame about Nan DeDero. That type of thing never, never,
never
happens on a Dean Ivald set; he's a consummate professional. My actors adore working with him. Would kill to work with him, in fact.”

Belle only nodded in response. She had no idea where this conversation was heading.

“Of course, they're going to have to replace her before the weekend is out.” Rennegor folded his arms across his chest. “And Nils, the casting director, has disappeared into the steamy depths of San Francisco … You know,” he continued, looking up at the lighting grids as if he were recalling some quaint event from the distant past, “when Chick first brought me this idea, or this
concept
, if you will, the very first words out of my mouth were: ‘Hey, why don't we get the Real McCoy? Why not get Belle Graham to play herself? She's a very attractive woman, and what a hook! The networks'll love it.' I still think the idea would have flown very well. Very well, indeed.”

Belle laughed aloud. “Oh, please. I'm not a performer by a long shot … Although I did act the part of Shylock in a high school play once—”

“I knew it! I knew it! I can always spot natural talent. That's why I'm the best agent in the business—bar none.” Lee clapped his hands twice, and gave her another toothy smile.
“The Merchant of Venice
right …? And, uh … your drama teacher decided to do an experimental, cross-gender thing? Talk about a high concept approach!”

“No,” Belle admitted, “the boy cast in the role dropped out, and I knew all the lines from working backstage, so …”

“I'm sure you were
wonderful
, Belle. Brilliant, probably … A teenaged girl playing an old, embittered man …” Words failed him; to compensate, he poured on the charm. “… I would have given anything to see that.” Rennegor pointed his finger at her. “And originally, that was exactly my point with Chick; often amateurs can deliver a far more convincing performance than the professionals—especially if they look the part. It's done all the time in L.A.”

“I don't know if I looked that much like Shylock.”

“I'm back on
Anatomy of a Crossword
now.”

“Ah.” Belle glanced down the narrow walkway that separated one studio wall from the “Lawson's Diner” set. At the far end, she saw Dean Ivald, who appeared to be ordering the crew not to walk in her direction or disturb her conversation with Lee. “I'm … Not sure what … Do you need me for something?”

“Funny you should ask … As I said, they've got to replace Nan DeDero, and I couldn't help but notice that your friend Sara Briephs—who our dear Nan was merely
attempting
to replicate—has an unlisted telephone number.”

All at once, Lee's motives became crystal clear. “What!” Belle nearly shouted. She slid her metal chair from the desk and slammed into the back of the “Lawson's” set. The wall began to rock slightly, and Rennegor placed a hand on the edge of the scenery flat to steady it.

“Look, Belle … I see this, ah,
suggestion
has taken you by surprise … But, trust me, everyone concerned believes Mrs. Briephs would do an excellent job with the part. Better than excellent—”

“You called Sara? At home?” Belle was still in a state of shock, mingled with an uneasy sense of dread—as if Sara, like Nan, were about to fall victim to a horrible accident.

“Well, no … I tried, but I don't have her phone number. It's a private line … I was hoping you could help me out there.”

“This is ridiculous. Sara's not an actress.”

“No, she's not. You're absolutely right about that. More than right. You've hit the nail on its proverbial head … But look at how popular these reality-based TV shows are, Belle. Are those people actors? Of course not. They're just everyday folks. One doesn't have to know the craft of acting to be a TV star anymore. Look at all those stand-up comedians with sitcoms. And besides, with a world-class director like Dean Ivald, what's not to like? Your wonderful friend, Sara, would be in the most capable hands in L.A. She could even get an Emmy Award out of this.”