Anatomy of a Crossword (14 page)

Again, that intimation of fear. “I don't know …”

Rennegor raised his voice and said, “Folks, can I get a chair back here?” It materialized in a matter of seconds. The stagehand who brought it vanished just as swiftly. Rennegor left his desk-side perch, moved close to Belle, and sat, lowering his voice to create a mood of utmost confidentiality. “Okay, Belle, I didn't want to have to say this, but these clowns …? I'm talking about Dean, Lew, and Chick, now. They're desperate. Groslir's got his back up against the wall. Mrs. Briephs can wring some very heavy dollars out of Lew, if we play our cards right.”

Belle smiled at him. “Sara could probably buy this entire studio three times over and turn it into a zoo if she wanted.”

He chuckled loudly—too loudly. “It already is a zoo … Okay, fine, Belle, but we're in the driver's seat here. I say, let's get some perks out of this. What do
you
want? Is there anything you're unhappy with? How about I rework your contract for you?”

“Well, I'd like not to be staring at the back of a stage-prop wall for the next week.”

Lee smiled and snapped his fingers. “You got it. As of Monday morning you're up in the booth with Lew. Consider it done.”

But the more Belle thought on the situation, the more uneasy she became. “I don't know … If Nan DeDero was injured so easily … I'd never forgive myself if something like that ever happened to Sara.”

“Belle, honey … it was an accident. A freak accident … Nothing like that has ever happened on one of Dean's shoots, ever … Just this once … Okay, I'll tell you what; we'll get Groslir to put a man on her 24-7. I'm telling you, the sky's the limit. These guys are up a creek. What do you want? A car and driver for Mrs. Briephs …? Stretch Lincoln? Cadillac? Hummer? You got it.”

“Well …”

“What did they give you to drive?”

“Actually, Chick's been chauffeuring me around so far.”

Rennegor rolled his eyes. Obviously he was dealing with a real hick. “Man, who negotiated that deal for you?”

“Chick said you did.”

“Ouch … That hurt, Belle … Okay, you've got your own car starting tomorrow … What else?”

But Belle still wasn't convinced. Obviously, Sara would love to do the show; she'd be in seventh heaven, thrilled to come out to Los Angeles and test her mettle with Dean Ivald and the gang. But how safe would she be? When was the next object going to drop or fall onto the set? On the other hand, it would be wonderful to have company. The city was proving to be a very lonely place with no friends, and no Rosco. Then, as if some little devil with a piece of candy had gotten inside of her mouth, Belle said that one word, “Rosco?”

“Rosco? Rosco? Is that all you want? You want your husband? You got him … I could get you Leonardo if you wanted him. Hey, I have a better idea! We fly Rosco out here, and we get him on the payroll. He can be Mrs. Briephs's bodyguard. He can be her twenty-four-seven guy. You want it? You got it. Why give the gig to one of these local goons, right? Especially when we have one of our own. He'll be on a plane by Sunday. Just say the word.”

Belle wanted to say “No,” but that sneaky, little devil took hold of her and made her say, “Okay.”

“You won't regret this, Belle. What's the number?”

“Number?”

“Mrs. Briephs's phone number?”

“Oh, right …” Again Belle's doubts began to resurface, “I don't know; maybe this isn't such a good idea …”

“Belle, honey, this is like a done deal. Don't go back on me now. You can't just say you'll do something and then back out of it. Besides, this is quick stuff, these scenes. Sara will be on the same plane heading home with you and your hubby in one short week. One tiny, little week! Think of all the wonderful stories you'll have … all the laughs you'll share … When I consider how my own mother would have jumped at the chance …” For once, Lee was telling the truth. If his mom had been alive, she would have clobbered him if he hadn't handed her the part. “Why, the notion of being of service to a lovely, older person just makes me choke up, that's all. Think of the opportunity! Think of the gift you'll be giving your dearest friend!” He took a deep breath. “What's that number?”

Belle also drew in a long and hesitant breath, then slowly released it. “It's five, zero, eight, five, five, five, seven, nine, zero, eight.”

Rennegor stood. “You're a doll. You won't regret this, not for a minute, believe me.”

“Aren't you going to write the number down?”

He tapped his index finger to his temple. “Mind like a steel trap.”

As Lee Rennegor turned to leave, Belle said, “Oh, and another thing, Rosco's going to need a car.”

“You got it.”

“A Mustang.”

“You got it.”

“Red.”

“You got it.”

“Convertible.”

“You got it.”

CHAPTER 15

Max Chugorro should have been a happy camper. Three of his scripts were now in development:
Border Deals, White Like Snow
, and
Tijuana Traffic
. He was a good screenwriter, having graduated from the UCLA film school with an award-winning short—all of which came just after a brief stint in the army and some unpleasant experiences during the first Gulf War. Max had a keen eye for life in the barrio and an ear for Hispanic machismo dialog, and was handy with a variety of firearms. He knew how to weave an action tale better than half the yo-yos who currently boasted Hollywood production deals.

But that single word,
development
, was his problem. It was a long, long way from a
production deal
, which could be even further away from
casting
and
lensing. Development
contracts often didn't put a lot of money into the pockets of new-kid-on-the-block screenwriters. And although the future should have looked bright for Max Chugorro, he was smart enough to realize that the time was not yet right for him to dispense with his small landscaping business.

So Max toiled away in the evenings honing scripts, while during the day, he worked over the lawns, gardens, and sprinkler systems of those people in the hills who couldn't quite afford a private gardener. His black-and-gold pickup truck had become a near fixture on Doheny, Hillcrest, and Beverly Drive. He wasn't rolling in dough, but the fairly steady work kept him afloat, and many homeowners thought it quaint to have their lawns redone by Max Chugorro, T
HE
M
ARQUIS DE
S
OD
, as his business card read.

But this particular sunny Saturday morning didn't find Max doing his usual—trudging behind some twenty-two-year-old trophy wife while she decided
precisely
where she wanted him to place the seventy-five pounds of potted agapanthus he'd been lugging around in his hands. No, this Saturday found him at the Garden Depot on Roscoe Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley doing a little pro bono work for his elderly aunt, none other than Harriet Tammalong. Harriet had wanted to replace her concrete patio with a brick one for as long as Max could remember, but his schedule had never been able to accommodate her wishes—until today, which placed the two of them on Roscoe Boulevard in the midst of the “hardscaping” section of the emporium as Harriet rattled off an array of questions concerning cinder blocks, mortar, slate, blue stone, statuary, and terra-cotta planters.

“… I want it to look like it's always been there, Maxie,” she said for the tenth time. “None of these shiny red ones.” She pointed to a pallet of bricks. “Oh, and not those brown ones, either. They're disgusting. They remind me of those tacky office buildings on Ventura Boulevard. Don't they have any old bricks here?”

“We can get used ones at another supply center, but they're expensive. Plus, if they're too soft, there's no telling how long they'll hold up.”

“There's no telling how long
I'm
going to hold up, Maxie. They don't need to last into the next century.”

“Right, but the other problem is, they're uneven. They make attractive walls, but they're hard to walk on. I think we should be considering tumbled bricks. They're uniform in size and easier to work with.”

Max took a step toward the pallet of tumbled bricks, but Harriet stopped him by grabbing the back of his tank top. “How's the movie business treating you, Maxie?”

“Er … fine, I guess. I've got a few things in development at Fox and another at Universal.”

“Hah, I know what
development
means. How's your money holding out?”

“I'm okay. There's still a lot of sick lawns in Beverly Hills.”

“Don't make me laugh. I know how cheap those muckety-mucks are. How many of them owe you money?”

“Ah … Not many?” He smiled at her.

Aunt Harriet was nobody's dummy; she'd been around, and she guessed that her dear nephew Maxie wasn't forceful when it came to demanding payments. “I want to pay you for your work, and I mean that. I have plenty of cash, Maxie … Not from your shiftless Uncle Harvey, though. Sheesh, he was the worst of the lot.”

Max laughed. “I wouldn't hear of you paying me. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get around to it, that's all.” He tugged his shirt from her hand and walked over to the tumbled bricks. Harriet followed.

“See,” he said, “they take brand new bricks, slop a little paint on them, place them in a huge drum, and roll them around for a while. That way, they become distressed and have that used look.”

“Humph,” Harriet said with a frown. “Speaking of distressed and used looks, whatever happened to that girlfriend of yours? What was her name? Daisy? Dotty? Dopey? Deb?”

Max stiffened noticeably as he interrupted. “I really don't want to talk about her. It's ancient history. I haven't seen her since she—”

But Harriet rolled on, not waiting for him to finish his sentence. “I met the most lovely young woman the other night at the
Down & Across
taping. I even introduced her to Gerry Orso as my niece.” She looked up at the bright sky, now with a dreamy expression. “Too bad she's married, she'd be perfect for you. She was very pretty. Someone I would like to get to know a lot better.”

“Thanks, Aunt Harriet.”

“But then you know … Come to think of it, I was married to number three when I met your Uncle Harvey, and that didn't slow me down. Although Harv was huge a mistake in the long run, he's the only one of the five who wasn't worth a plugged nickel. Not even life insurance. I learned my lesson there—get that life insurance policy early.”

Max removed two of the tumbled bricks from the pallet. “See, every one one looks entirely different, but they're all the same size, so they give you a very smooth, yet aged look.”

“‘Smooth but aged,' hmmm … That was Harvey, all right … You need a girlfriend, Maxie. Even if it's back to that tramp you used to be so stuck on.”

“Can we just drop her, Harriet? Please?”

“The tramp? Sure, like she dropped you? I'll never forgive her for that … Of course if she came back, that would be—”

“That's not going to happen. She's with some guy in Malibu, living the high life. Now, can we just kill it?”

“Fine. Fine. But, that's Hollywood for you. These trampy actresses will always run off with the guy who's got the
in
with the studios, just like she did. Wait till you get your break, the ladies will be knocking your door down, too.”

Max shook his head. “What about the tumbled bricks?”

“Well …” Harriet rolled the brick in her hands, inspecting all six sides. “They're very attractive.” She picked up a second brick. “And no two seem the same … I like that, the lack of uniformity. And … And … I have an idea.”

“Yes …?”

“I have an idea how we're going to get you a writing job … And maybe a girlfriend at the same time.”

“Let me worry about all that, okay, Aunt Harriet? Now, what about the bricks?”

She gave him a big smile. “Sure, Maxie, wrap 'em up”

“I need to measure your patio first to determine how many I'll need. I'll take you home, and we can do it now, if you like.”

“This all is very exciting.”

As Max and Harriet exited the Garden Depot and crossed the parking lot toward his waiting pickup truck, a gray Toyota sedan zipped by them, honked twice and darted into a nearby parking space. The driver's door swung open, and a woman with bowl-cut hair stepped out, immediately locked the car, and began walking directly toward Harriet and Max.

“Goodness,” Harriet said, “it's Wanda Jorcrof. Looks like we're not heading home quite yet. I need to talk to her.”

CHAPTER 16

By seven-thirty Sunday evening, the silver crescent of the new moon had yet to appear on the eastern horizon. Its absence made Los Angeles glow, its vast parade of street lights, car lights, house lights, office complexes, and neon-bright strip malls in vivid contrast to the inky sky. Mile upon mile of pinpoint-sized sparks flashed on and off over the city and its spreading suburbs. And as their Continental Airlines Boeing 767 banked over Malibu on its final approach for landing at LAX, Sara and Rosco were treated to this spectacular, almost phosphorescent view. The cabin overheads had been dimmed; the night was a deep charcoal hue; and the ocean, vast and primeval, darker still. “Oh!” Sara murmured. “Perhaps, this is what paradise looks like. Paradise seen from above, that is.”

“What would be above paradise?” Rosco asked with a smile.

“You've got a good point,” was Sara's wry reply before a passing flight attendant reminded her that her seat belt wasn't fastened.

“Very bossy, these stewardesses are nowadays,” Sara confided as the young woman walked toward the aircraft's aft section. The older lady deemed the term “flight attendant” too modern and vague, preferring the more nautical “steward” as if she were not aloft but aboard a transatlantic liner. Rosco held his tongue, opting not to mention that “bossy” might best describe Sara Crane Briephs—a trait that seemed to run in her family. Her brother, the senator, enjoyed the same reputation on Capitol Hill. The thought brought Rosco's mind full circle.