Mumbo Gumbo (7 page)

“Well,” she said, speaking loudly across the room to him, “that’s because you haven’t read the thing yet, darling.” She turned back to me as I took a seat at the table. “It’s crap.”

“Okay,” I said, taking out my pen, looking earnest. I had suddenly hit upon a whole new plan.

“Why is it crap?” she bellowed. “Because the show is based on a man, my husband, who is famous for just one thing: New American cuisine. That’s the gold mine, doll. New American. This script you want to shoot today is full of recipes that are supposed to be from Chef Howie, but they are dishes that Chef Howie would never in a million years cook.”

“That sounds particularly stupid,” I said.

Fate eyed me, surprised. “Yes, it is. As you know, Madeline, Chef Howie’s name is revered on seven continents. He is the leading star of New American cuisine.”

I wondered, briefly, how many gourmets in—say—Antarctica were praising Chef Howie’s expertise with grilled pork chops, but held back from actually asking.

“So which of the writing geniuses on
Food Freak
decided,” Fate continued, fuming, “to have today’s cook-off recipes feature a ‘little Italian café lunch’?”

“Good question,” I agreed, matching her irritated tone and volume. Then I gave what I hoped was a properly smug smile. “I’d like to know what Quentin had to say when you asked him that!”

A cashew was held arrested in the air as she got my point. “Quentin wrote that Italian dreck? Those nasty
bruschetta aglio e olio, al pomodoro
? That sad, sad
cozze all’aglio e prezzemolo
? No wonder that damned little toad defended this script and sang the praises of today’s pathetic menu. No wonder!”

Despite her rant, her Italian pronunciation was perfect. Fate Finkelberg obviously knew from her Italian dishes. But “nasty” and “sad”? Who could despise a simple and satisfying
bruschetta,
crusty toasted Italian garlic bread with a topping of fresh tomato and basil salad in olive oil? And why hate the
cozze,
a perfectly marvelous dish of fresh mussels sautéed with garlic, lemon, parsley, and wine? Since she had chosen to get riled about them, and since she didn’t actually know I had written those very recipes, I kept it to myself and let Quentin take the rap.

“I’m new here,” I said with a sigh, “but honestly, how do you both put up with this?”

Howie was actively listening to our conversation now. He waved at his makeup man to stop powdering and I suspected he didn’t want to miss a word.

“Exactly,” Fate said. “My God, Howie, she understands us!”

I smiled at her sympathetically and became Fate Finkelberg’s new ally.

“Madeline, you know food. You know how hard my Howie has worked to make this show the top show on the network. You go and tell Greta we will not ruin Chef Howie’s credibility. He owes it to his fans to stay true to his damn muse.”

“Chef Howie stands for something important,” I said. “And no network or producer is going to make him break his word to the American public.”

“That is goddamn right,” Fate said.

“But they’ll never postpone a taping to make corrections
to the script at this late hour,” I said, my voice thick with disgust at the horrid network. “They would rather ruin an artist than pay a crew overtime. Damn them,” I said, in deep frustration.

Fate smiled at me in friendship. “Let me tell you something, sweet pea. There is nobody and nothing on the face of this earth that can force Chef Howie to do something that’s just plain wrong. Chef Howie has principles, damn it to hell.”

“You are just amazing,” I said.

“The truth is,” Fate said, pushing the half-empty tin of nuts across the marble tabletop, “Chef Howie is a sweetheart. He loves everyone and everyone loves him. He’s buddies with the head writer, Tim Stock, so my Howie just lets a lot of this crappy writing go. I always tell Chef Howie he’s gotta put his foot down or they’ll figure they can roll right over him, like damn battle tanks. That’s the way it works if you show any kindness, am I right?”

I nodded, watching Fate warm up to the problem. Her mounting frustration reminded me of the mercury in one of those bulging old Warner Bros. cartoon thermometers, which had been inked right here on this very lot, over half a century ago.

“Believe me when I tell you, Madeline, I know what is happening here,” she continued, the mercury edging higher. “Sure, the network loves
Freak.
They love the ratings. But they think they can push us around. If I don’t watch out, they’ll destroy Chef Howie. It’s maddening, honey. It kills me.”

In my several years as a professional caterer and party planner, I’d run into plenty of clients like Fate Finkelberg who had some huge gripe that they couldn’t
let go of. However, in my former role, my task was to settle the client down at all costs. This new job was actually a hell of a lot easier.

“It is simply sickening,” I said, disturbed to my core. “But they have the power. In the end, just what can you do?”

Fire burned behind her leather lids. “What can I do?” she said, raising her voice even louder and looking to the back of the trailer.

Chef Howie met her eyes. “It’s okay, Fate. Come on, honey. It’s okay.”

“Tell me something, sweetie,” she said, her voice edging higher. “I forget. Who calls the shots around here?”

Howie waved away his makeup guy. He walked over to the table and crouched down right beside her. “Fate,” he said, soft and low. Chef Howie flashed her the kind of smile that would have stopped a female elephant on the veldt in midcharge.

“No, Howie,” she said, but her voice had softened. “No. I mean it this time. How much longer, darling, are we gonna let these game-show jerks screw with you? Italian food?
Bru-
fucking
-schetta?
We’re walking, baby. So they lose a day of production. What the hell do we care? It’s not coming out of our pocket. Madeline knows how these things work. This is the only language they understand, believe me.”

And so it escalates up the chain of command, I realized. A little drama just to get some attention and respect. First a little swearing, and next, the stakes had been raised so high that a star walks off the set.

“Fate…,” Howie started again, but she simply wasn’t going to be Fate’d.

“It’s just dandy,” she said, hot and determined, “that the network is begging us for one more show. Wonderful. But we are walking until they give us a script worth doing, Howie. I know you hate this, but trust me. Your buddy Tim Stock isn’t here today. There is not one person here that you have to please,” she said, staring him down, “except
me.
”

Fate Finkelberg’s thin, tanned body, encased in its zebra-striped halter top, quivered with anger. Chef Howie knew when to stay quiet. Like me, he must have caught a glimpse of the cartoon thermometer, its bright red mercury now past the point of stopping. We watched it throb almost to the top and then, under the pressure and heat of Fate’s enormous ambitions and bitter disappointments, explode.

W
e’ve got some serious news,” Artie Herman said. “Very serious, so please settle down, people.”

The entire staff of
Food Freak
was assembled in the executive producer’s office. They were gathering there, on the third floor, by the time I got back to our building. I never made it back to my office, in fact, but instead joined the throng as we marched up the flight of stairs and found spots to perch, some leaning, others standing or sitting around his large quarters. I had never been in Artie Herman’s office before and he and I had met only briefly. I was impressed by the art on his walls, mostly enlarged stills taken from famous old-time commercials. A large portrait of that cartoon imp, Speedy Alka-Seltzer, took the spot of honor behind Artie’s desk, while a colorful frame featuring a blow-up of Lassie eating Pro-Patties hung over the credenza.

“First, a little background,” Artie said, as the group settled down. “You all know how proud I am of this show. We’ve done what no one else has done. We’ve made a game show number one.”

No one rushed to correct Artie Herman. No one bothered to remind him of all the quiz shows that had
been at the top of the ratings heap fifty years ago. No one mentioned the new monster reality games like
Survivor
, or dared to whisper the names of such recent game champs as
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
or
Weakest Link.
The little man with the white curls who had created
Food Freak
could be forgiven for a little
Freak
chauvinism.

“We have done a wonderful job this season. Wonderful,” he said, beaming at us. “We deserve a lot of credit. We worked damned hard. Now you all know, we were set to wrap the show last week. You all know that. But when the network asked me, ‘Artie, will you save us one more time? We need one more episode of
Freak.
’ What was I going to tell them? Should I have told them no? Of course we could do another show. It’s our pleasure and our responsibility to do another show. Sure it is. We want to help.”

Artie Herman was in his seventies, a man who had made a fortune, so I had heard, in the advertising game back when television was just starting out and when Madison Avenue doted on its creative kooks. With his soft jowls and his frizz of tight white curls, Artie Herman struck me as a jolly elf, the type who hosted kids’ cartoon shows. He spoke with a charming accent, part Brooklyn, part lisp—like a fey Henny Youngman. The rumors had it that despite his office artwork, he had not actually created those famous campaigns. But then, lots of gossip was mean.

Artie stood in front of his desk and slipped his manicured hands into the pockets of his khakis. “Here’s the thing, my dears. Here’s the thing. We’ve been hit with some pretty rough news today. That’s why I called you all in here.”

The staff was alert. According to our production
schedule, we were all due on the soundstage in about ten minutes, to start taping today’s show.

“I’m sorry to tell you two sad things. Well, the first isn’t really so sad,” he amended. “First, we must cancel the taping today.”

Everyone from the most senior lighting director to the youngest runner looked shocked. Murmurs of surprise circulated among the forty or so staffers present.

“It’s a shame, sure,” Artie said, responding to the reaction. “A shame. But you must understand, it is no one’s fault. Chef Howie called me from his trailer. He was not feeling well. He really was a sick man. This happens, sometimes. Not, God willing, too often, you understand, but it happens.”

Sick? I looked at Greta, who gave me a slight nod.

So that’s how it was to be explained. Perhaps I actually had a talent for this business. I felt a mixture of thrill and queasy.

“Sick?” The question came from
Food Freak
’s director, Pete Steele, who was leaning against the door frame, cool and aloof.

“All of a sudden, Pete, yeah,” Artie said, his voice sounding very sincere. “What are you gonna do? So we’ll see how he is, and we’ll reschedule. Nothing to it. Don’t worry.”

“When?” Pete sounded just a little peeved. “I’m not available for the next two days. I’m already committed to
Bloopers.
”

“Don’t worry, Pete. I understand that. Greta will figure out the schedule, won’t you, Greta?”

We all watched Greta nod.

“Good, okay then,” Artie said. “And of course you all get paid for a full day.” There were some sighs in the crowd. “Sure. Of course. We have insurance that
covers all of these costs in the case of a talent getting sick, so we won’t be losing any money. Good. Then the next order of business, before I let the crew go home, is to tell you more disturbing news. This really hurts me and I know you will all be concerned, too, but I found out this morning very disturbing news about our good friend and writer, Tim Stock. For the past week, he could not be reached. And, well, we are getting worried.”

Not the first on the staff to be told, now was he? I looked back at Greta, sitting next to Artie’s desk. Greta liked to hold her cards tight to her petite chest, but at some point she had had to break the bad news to Artie. Of course, our office staff knew that Tim was out of contact, but everyone else in the room, from the cue-card woman to the props guy, was startled.

“What happened?” Pete Steele asked.

“We, uh, don’t know all the details, of course,” Artie said, in his phumfering way. “Sure, it’s a shock to us all. Tim is like my own son. He’s never missed a day of work on this show since the first day we went into development, over a year ago, and it was just Greta and Tim and me. He’s a champ. He needed a vacation after all the work we loaded on him. He deserved a break, so maybe he went away on vacation. Sure. But that doesn’t explain why no one can find him at all. So I had to tell you. It’s a shock.”

Greta spoke up for the first time that meeting. “Let’s not get worried yet. Tim left before we heard from the network last week. He didn’t know we had been asked to do one more show. He’s probably…I’m sure he’s just fine. But we’d like to hear from him. If anyone has any information, Artie and I would be extremely grateful.”

I looked around to catch Quentin Shore’s reaction. After all, he’d just received a postcard from Tim Stock. As I scanned the group, all murmuring now, I realized with a start that Quentin was not present.

“Okay, so that’s it,” Artie said, looking old and tired. “You can all go home. Greta will reschedule our taping. And our darling Susan…,” he said, looking over the crowd and finding the first PA, Susan Anderson, sitting on the floor by his coffee table, “ah, there you are, my dear—Susan will phone each of you with your new call times for the taping.”

Susan gave a little wave.

“What about the contestants?” Nell asked.

“They’ve been sitting in makeup for over two hours,” Stell added.

“Tell them to clear their schedule this week. We’ll let them know when we need them back,” Greta said. “And of course, we’ll prepare an entirely new script for the next taping, just to be careful.”

How smoothly she played the game. I suddenly had that whooshy feeling that a bishop must get when he finds himself scuttling diagonally all the way across the chessboard. There he is, startled to find himself landed on such a dangerous square.

In this game, moves upon moves were in play. First, Greta moved me into range of the Finkelbergs. There, I tempted Fate to make a move. Soon, Fate was agitated enough to capture her favorite chess piece, Howie, and take him right out of the game. Artie Herman knew how to respond to losing his star piece. He sidestepped the facts and called it a sick day. Greta was quite a player. Using this gambit, she protected our secret about the office break-in, canceled taping without losing the show a cent, and made it possible
to discard our possibly tainted script, without ever appearing to have made a move at all.

And before anyone else could raise a loud gripe, Artie announced, “That’s all. Let’s go home.”

Conversations picked up as the three stage managers and sound engineer, the art director and set decorator, and the others cleared out of Artie’s office. As I had been the only one there who hadn’t known Tim Stock, I was not included in the wash of gossip and concern as it spread over those who had obviously been close to Tim. Jennifer Klein, the other staff writer, looked paler than usual, and Jackson and Kenny, the two assistant PAs, were huddled together, talking.

Greta Greene caught up with me in the hallway. We were surrounded by those who were leaving, shuffling down the stairs, and she pulled me gently into the small supply room off to the right. We huddled next to the large copy machine and found a tiny bit of privacy.

“Madeline,” she said, “great work. I mean it. You saved my life.”

“I hope it all turns out well,” I said. “Chef Howie is sick?”

“Insurance claim. They always say the star is sick. Who can argue? Fate made her protest gesture and now she can cool off. It was just perfect.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. There was nothing wrong with those recipes. She’ll calm down.”

“But what’s really going on with Tim Stock?” I asked, finding myself uneasier about the fact that he still hadn’t been found. “Is he in Las Vegas? Have you heard anything new?”

She pulled a distracted hand through her shortcropped blond hair. “Nothing. I’m really getting mad. Why hasn’t he checked his messages? I’ve left so many, the tape is full.”

“Talk to Quentin,” I suggested. “He just heard from Tim.”

“What?” Greta looked more startled than I would have expected. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what he claimed, but then I didn’t see him in Artie’s office.”

“Artie,” Greta said, shaking her head. “Artie took the news hard. He got emotional. Artie’s a sweet old guy in many ways. He’s been very attached to Tim. He was close to tears when I told him that Tim wasn’t answering any of our pages or messages and we just didn’t know what was up.”

Everyone suffers when someone goes missing. It’s the terror of not knowing how to respond. Has something horrible happened? Is the missing person in need of our help? Or has it only been some mix-up? Some thoughtlessness. Some missed communication. Should we rush off in rescue mode, or simply accept the fact that we’d been stood up? The anxiety of waiting to find out which is the appropriate response, fear or anger, can be excruciating.

The hallway outside the supply room had cleared. The staff had disbursed.

“Look,” Greta said as I was about to leave, “hold on for another second. We still have a problem. Tim’s office.”

I thought about the papers and files and books lying everywhere.

“I’ve been thinking,” Greta said. “It seems more
like a crime of opportunity, doesn’t it? Someone, some contestant or someone else who shouldn’t have been within fifteen yards of our writers’ department, saw the door ajar…”

I winced in a ladylike fashion and Greta patted my hand and continued. “Anyway, they grabbed the chance to take a look around. I don’t know if they were after the script or just looking to snatch a wallet. Whatever it was, they made that mess as a cover-up and got out of there fast.”

I nodded, considering it.

“The thing is…I can’t just call maintenance to clean it up. The office has obviously been trashed and the fewer people around here who know about it, the better. You’re the only one I can turn to.”

“To clean up the office?”

The chess master nodded. “Can you stay late and take care of it? Please?”

“Oh, man.”

“I know. It’s vile. But let me think…Why don’t I throw in a bonus? How about a perk?”

Hollywood was famous for throwing around outrageous perquisites, extra little luxuries above and beyond one’s salary, when they wanted to butter someone up. Stars often demanded them in their contracts: bowls of M&M’s with the green ones removed, fresh tulips in the dressing room, or a stretch limo to take them to work. A limo. Being picked up for work each morning in a limo could be nice. That is, if I didn’t live only five minutes away in the hills of Whitley Heights, and if my street wasn’t so narrow and twisty no self-respecting stretch could climb up it.

“I need your help so badly, Maddie. I’m moving on to bribery.” Greta grinned at me. “I have an idea. I’ve
heard you complain about the filthy old furniture in Tim’s office.”

I had renewed respect for how Greta managed to work her way up the ladder of life. “You’d get rid of the sofa from hell?”

“It could be arranged. And I might be able to find something more suitable to replace it.”

“It’s tempting. And I’d like to help you. But that office is a nightmare.”

“Look, you don’t have to do this alone. Maybe you know someone who could help you. Just no one from here.”

At last, Greta sparked my interest. “You’ll pay them?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“I mean in money, Greta, not by tempting them with Naugahyde love seats.”

“On the payroll! As our fourth PA. Done. Who do you know?”

“I can call Holly Nichols. I think you know her. She works with me at the catering company. She’s been looking for a temporary gig until our busy season.” I used my most optimistic phrasing. “Maybe Holly is still available. What’s the salary?” I was hoping Holly could pick up a few hundred dollars for one evening’s tidying up. I felt so responsible for the business slowing down and all of us having to scramble.

Greta always clenched tightly on to the show budget’s purse strings, but she was pretty much out of options here.

“How much?” I picked up my cell phone.

“I’ll pay her one thousand dollars for one night’s work.”

Had she just said one
thousand
dollars? That couldn’t be what I heard.

“Okay, okay. Twelve hundred. But that’s it, Madeline.”

“You’re offering twelve hundred to face that mess?” I asked, quickly adjusting to the inflated numbers and protecting my protégée.

“All right. I’ll give her fifteen hundred. Are you happy now?”

“I’ll call her,” I said.

“You are amazing.” Greta gave me a little hug. “And while the two of you clean up in Tim’s office, just be careful.”

I stopped dialing and paid attention.