The Extra (16 page)

“No, baby, listen!  You’ve got it all wrong!” Jessica protested.

“Oh you think so, do you?  Tell us, copper, did I miss something in all that?”

“Go ahead, McGhee.  Shoot me,” said Warren.  “But there’ll always be another.  There’ll always be another willing to die to free the world of scum like you.”

“Nice speech, kid, but no matter how many cops you got out there, you’ll never get rid of scum like me.  Want to know why?  ‘Cause we run the joint, see?  This city would grind to a halt without scum like me.  Now give me your jacket and put these on.” McGhee slid out of his own jacket and tossed it, along with his white hat, to Warren. 

Warren looked at the clothing skeptically.  “Do it!” McGhee shouted, thrusting his gun forward and breaking into a sly smile.  “And I promise not to shoot you.”  Warren did as instructed and McGhee put on Warren’s gray jacket.  “All right, I’m coming out!” McGhee called out the window.  “Don’t shoot!  I give up!”

“McGhee, you’re really not going to shoot us, are you?  Not really!” Jessica pleaded.  “You couldn’t!”

“No, I’m not gonna shoot you, babe,” said McGhee.  “I’ll let the coppers do my dirty work.”

Warren placed his fingers to Jessica’s cheek as he gazed into her eyes.  “I don’t regret it.  Not any of it.  I never would have met you, otherwise.”  Jessica leaned forward and kissed him tenderly on the lips.  One of the henchmen pushed the front door open, leaving the couple standing exposed in the doorway.

“Come out slowly!” commanded the police chief.  “With your hands on your head where we can see them!”

“You trust your boys, copper?” McGhee said to Warren.

“They’re men of honor, which is more than I can say for you,” said Warren.

“Go on, then.  You’re free to leave,” said McGhee.  “But you say one word on the way out and I’ll shoot you in the back.”

Warren kissed Jessica on the forehead.  “It’ll be all right,” he said and then turned and slowly walked out with his hands on his head, nearly blinded by police spotlights.  When he got to the middle of the street he stopped.

“On your knees!” came the police captain’s voice.

Warren complied, dropping slowly to one knee at a time.

“Fire!” was the next command.  Suddenly, the police opened up with everything they had.  Warren shook, wobbled, and fell to the pavement.

“No!!!” Jessica shouted, running out after him.  The bullets continued to fly as she fell to the ground herself, red blood spurting through her white dress.  She crawled slowly to her lover’s side.  “Baby, baby, you’re going to be all right!” she cried.

“I don’t think so.  I think this is it, Maggie,” wheezed Warren.

“Don’t go, baby!  Hold my hand!”  Jessica reached out and took Warren’s hand in her own before she collapsed by his side.

“Let’s go boys.  Show’s over,” said McGhee from inside the house.  He took one last look and then followed his men down a hatch in the floor and disappeared.  On the street, a pool of blood spread across the pavement from Warren and Jessica’s lifeless bodies. 

“Cut!  That was beautiful!  Absolutely first rate!  I’ll take it.  Thank you everybody, it’s been a wonderful shoot!” shouted Kaplan.

Craddock gazed imperiously over the set.  He turned to his security guards and nodded with a gleam in his eyes.  The guards sprang into action, moving across the set until they converged on Warren.

Jessica sat up on one arm.  “So long, Warren August,” she said with relish, as though he were a bug she was finally able to squash.

The guards leaned over and grabbed Warren by his arms.  “Let’s go,” said the head guard.

“What?” said a surprised Warren.  “Where are we going?”

The guards dragged Warren across the set, his legs dragging behind him as they went.  Craddock turned to Kaplan.  “I don’t want to hear a word from you!” Craddock said.  “Not a word!”

Kaplan shrugged and turned around.  “I’m not saying a thing.”  As long as the film was finished shooting, Kaplan didn’t particularly care what happened to Warren August.

Outside a steady rain poured down as the guards hauled Warren across the lot.  Any ambitions he may have harbored were now fully extinguished.  In a strange way he felt relieved.  The guards pulled him outside the gate and dropped him on the sidewalk where he lay on his back, staring straight up at the raindrops hurtling toward him from the heavens.  Here he was, exactly where he’d started.  Back on the street.  In a way he was home.

Warren slowly climbed to his feet.  In his pocket he felt the wad of un-cashed vouchers.  If he could get to the payroll office one more time, at least he could leave with some money in his pocket.  He made his way back toward the studio entrance until the head guard and his protégés blocked Warren’s way.

“Where do you think you’re going?” said the guard in amazement.

“Payroll,” said Warren.

“Sorry friend, you’re banned from the lot.”

“But I have to cash these!”  Warren held up his vouchers.

 “Not on this lot, you don’t.”  The guard quickly snatched the vouchers from his hand and tossed them into the air, where they caught an updraft and floated away, sailing out into the street.  They landed in puddles and under the tires of passing cars.  Warren hurried after, scrambling to collect them, but the soaked carbon paper disintegrated in his hands.  Warren took one last look back at the lot and then walked off down the sidewalk in the drenching rain; back where he belonged.

Chapter Thirty

A Venetian street scene was illuminated with warm, colored light, transporting the capacity audience to sixteenth century Italy.  A cast of actors dressed in flowing robes and dresses played out the final act of
The Merchant of Venice
on closing night, with Bridget Peterson in the role of Portia.  She breathed in deeply, channeling the spirit of the money-lender’s daughter for the last time.  Bridget couldn’t help but look to the crowd as they watched her from their seats in the darkness.  When the curtain slowly fell the applause began to swell. 

As the curtain opened again, the house lights came up and the audience rose to their feet.  The entire cast stood on stage hand-in-hand, with Bridget beside a weathered-looking Shylock.  The group leaned forward in unison and then one by one took their individual bows.  With each actor the ovation grew louder until it was Bridget’s turn.  When she stepped forward and leaned down, the noise was thunderous.  Flowers littered the stage at her feet.  She bent low to pick up a rose and then held it up to acknowledge the crowd.  The adulation washed over her like a wave and filled her lonely heart.  For the moment, she was almost happy. 

In the dressing room Bridget sat before a mirror, wiping off her makeup with alcohol and cotton balls.  Ariel walked up behind her in a shimmering black suit.  He placed a gentle hand on each of Bridget’s shoulders.  “You are gifted, you know,” he said.

Bridget gave him an exasperated look in the mirror and then sighed.

“What?!” said Ariel.

“Nothing.  Thank you for your kind words,” she answered.

“You never were very good at taking compliments.”

“Well you can help me practice that any time.”

“It’s always a little sad, isn’t it?  Closing night?”

“I would say it’s bittersweet,” said Bridget.  “You do get your life back.  For a while, anyway.”

“But what is life without the theater?  Without the applause and the roses thrown at your feet?”

“It’s the cast I miss the most.  The camaraderie.”

“I know you love me.  You can say it,” said Ariel.

“Of course,” Bridget laughed.

“I hear they’re doing
Mary Poppins
in KC,” said Ariel.  “I could make a call for you.”

“Thanks anyway, but I think I’ll pass.”

“Why?!  You’d be perfect for it!” Ariel complained.  

“I need some time to work a few things out,” Bridget said. 

“You’ve still got your heart set on Hollywood,” Ariel guessed. 

“Maybe I do,” she answered.

“Why put yourself through all the humiliation?  You’ve got a career already, right here!”

“Because maybe I’m not a small town girl,” she said.

“Yes, you are,” he answered.  “Don’t kid yourself.  Besides, this is not such a small town.”

“Then maybe I don’t like being a quitter.  I’m just not ready to throw in the towel.  Not yet.  I know I went out there for all the wrong reasons, but I left for the wrong reasons, too.”

“This is about that man, isn’t it?” said Ariel with disdain.  He knew his Bridget, better sometimes than she knew herself.

“It’s about perseverance.  It’s about not giving up,” Bridget answered, but with Ariel there was no hiding the truth.

“You never were very good at lying,” he replied.  “But if you simply must, just go back there and knock their socks off!  You make that bum crawl back on hands and knees!”

Bridget stood and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing tightly.  “Thanks Ariel.  You know I’ll miss you.”

“Just don’t forget us, honey.  When you’re rich and fabulous.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Sydney Rallston sat at his desk at the
Hollywood Recorder
, surrounded by photos dating back though his 40-year career as an entertainment reporter.  There was a smiling young Rallston arm-in-arm with Bob Hope.  There was another with Rallston holding the reins of a horse for a glamorous Elizabeth Taylor when she was still one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood.  His shelves were littered with statues and awards.  His career was one of the finest in the business, but that was then.  Now he was a just a dinosaur.  With every passing year he became less relevant in an industry that worshiped youth.  The only reason they kept him on was some sense of loyalty nearly unheard of in this town.  The publisher had a soft spot for him.  Rallston knew his career was nearly washed up, but he wasn’t ready to go quietly.  He needed one more big story.  One more that would make the world stand up and listen.  After that, he didn’t care what they did with him.  After that, he would be done.

In one hand, Rallston held up a production still of Warren August.  It was from a small stack he’d managed to get his hands on from a new movie called
The South Side
.  The movie had only just opened, but already there was buzz about this newcomer who’d appeared out of nowhere and then vanished into thin air just as quickly.  “Who the hell is this guy?” Rallston said to himself.  He’d spent weeks trying to track the man down.  So far he’d found out virtually nothing.  All he knew for sure was that this was the story he’d been looking for.  It was the story that could salvage his once illustrious career from the garbage heap.  He needed this story, and he was willing to do whatever it took to get it. 

“Sydney, what the hell is this?!” barked his editor, Harold Oswald, from across the room.  Oswald, in round wire-rimmed glasses and a crisp blue shirt, stopped at Rallston’s desk and dropped a sheaf of printed pages in front of his most senior reporter.  They were covered with red ink.  “Look, you can’t write about the young people today if you don’t know anything about them,” Oswald said.

“What’s wrong with it?” said Rallston, trying to hide his humiliation.

“For one thing, they don’t use the word ‘hip’ anymore.  Not unless it’s followed by the word ‘hop.’ 

“I was trying to have some fun with it.  You know, a little retro.  If you don’t think it works, I’ll fix it,” said Rallston.

“Don’t bother.  I’m having Jennifer re-write it for you,” said Oswald, looking down on Rallston’s desk.  “What is this you’re working on?” he asked with concern.

“I’m looking into this Warren August thing,” said Rallston.  “I think it’s a big story.”

“Of course it’s a big story.  That’s why I already have two other people on it,” said Oswald.

“Oh,” replied Rallston, trying to hide his disappointment.  “Have they come up with anything?”

“Not yet, but they will,” said Oswald.  “If anybody can find this guy, we’ll find him.”

“Can you put me on the team?” Rallston asked hopefully.

“No.  I don’t want you to touch this one.”

“I’m telling you Harold, I can do this!” Rallston pleaded.

Oswald didn’t try to hide his contempt.  “It’s covered, Sydney.  Don’t make me tell you again.  I want you to get on that Sesame Street anniversary thing.  I’m sure you won’t screw that one up.”  Oswald walked back to his office, leaving Rallston slumped a little lower in his chair.

“Big Bird it is,” Rallston said to himself.  He picked up the stills from
The South Side
and flipped through them one more time.  There had to be someone else he could talk to.  Someone he’d overlooked.  The producer, director and stars knew nothing, or at least wouldn’t admit it.  Same with the casting director.  Even payroll had no address on the man.

Rallston looked at a photo of August and Jessica Turnbull staring longingly into each other’s eyes.  “If I see him again in this lifetime, it’ll be too soon,” was all she’d had to say.

The reporter held up a shot of Richard Slade as the gangster McGhee, standing in a speakeasy and surrounded by burly henchmen.  In the background, ten or twelve extras sat at tables and barstools.  Rallston looked at each one carefully; an overweight woman with a drink in her hand; a baldheaded man, pretending to be deep in conversation; a pretty, slight girl in her 20’s with a beanie pulled low.  “One of you people knows something,” he said out loud.  He put the photo down, picked up his phone and dialed.

“Central Casting, how may I direct your call?” said a voice on the other end of the line.

“Let me speak to Denise Walker,” said Rallston.

“Please hold,” said the voice.  Rallston waited for a few moments.

“Denise Walker,” came another voice, sharp and rapid.

“Denise, hello.  Sydney Rallston,” he answered.

“Sydney.  I told you I have nothing on that guy, August.  I wish I did,” she replied.  “Believe me.”

“I know, I know.  I was thinking, though, what it would take to get a list of people you sent on that job?  Maybe with phone numbers?”

“You know that’s confidential information,” said Denise.