Laugh Lines Page 18

  “Oh, I’m getting all the money,” Gabriel said. “They can’t renege on that . . . the Screen Writers Guild would start napalming Titanic if they tried anything like that. I’ll get paid for both the scripts I wrote . . . .”

  “But neither one’s going to be produced,” Oxnard said. “Earnest has scrapped them both.”

  “So what? I’ll get paid for ‘em. And I’ve been getting my regular weekly check as Story Editor. And they still have to pay me my royalties for each show, as the Creator.”

  With a smile, Brenda asked, “You’re going to let them keep your name on the credits?”

  “Hell no!” Gabriel grinned back, but it was a Pyrrhic triumph. “They’ll have to use my Guild-registered pen name: Victor Lawrence Talbot Frankenstein.”

  “Oh no!” Brenda howled.

  Oxnard frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “Frankenstein and the Wolfman,” Gabriel explained. “I save that name for shows that’ve been screwed up. It’s my way of telling friends that the show’s a clinker, a grade B horror movie.”

  “His friends,” Brenda added, giggling, “and everybody in the industry.”

  “Oh.” But Oxnard still looked as if he didn’t really understand.

  Laughing at the thought of his modest revenge, Gabriel said, “Lemma grab my bags and take you both to dinner.”

  “The restaurants are closed,” Oxnard said. “We checked. They ran out of food about an hour ago.”

  Gabriel held up one hand, looking knowledgeable: “Have no fear. I know where the aircrews have their private cafeteria. One of the stewardesses gave me the secret password to get in there.”

  Oxnard watched the little guy scamper back through the now-dozing security girl’s magnetic detector portal and head for his bags, by the window. It was still snowing heavily.

  “Victor Lawrence Talbot Frankenstein?” he muttered.

  Brenda said to him, “It’s the only satisfaction he’s going to get out of this series.”

  “He’s getting all that money . . . .”

  She rested a hand on his shoulder and said, “It’s not really all that much money, compared to the time and effort he’s put in. And . . . well, Bill . . . suppose your new holographic system won the Nobel Prize . . . .”

  “They don’t give Nobels for inventions.”

  “But just suppose,” Brenda insisted. “And then one of the people who decide on the Prize comes to you and says they’re going to name Gregory Earnest as the inventor. You’ll get the money that goes with the Prize, but he’ll get the recognition.”

  “Ohh. Now I see.”

  Gabriel came back, lugging his suitcase and typewriter. As they started down the corridor, Oxnard took the typewriter from him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Nothing to it.”

  Brenda said, “Looks like we’ll be here a long time.”

  “Good,” said Oxnard. “It’ll give me a chance to ask you some questions about a new idea of mine.”

  “What’s that?” Gabriel asked.

  Oxnard scratched briefly at his nose. “Oh, it’s just .a few wild thoughts I put together . . . but it might be possible to produce a three-dee show without using any actors. You . . . .”

  “What?” Gabriel looked startled. Brenda pursed her lips.

  Oxnard nodded as they walked. “After watching how pitiful Dulaq is as an actor, I got to thinking that there’s no fundamental reason why you couldn’t take one holographic picture of him—a still shot—and then use a computer to electronically move his image any way you want to . . . you know, make him walk, run, stand up, sit down. Some of the work they’ve been doing at the VA with hemiplegics . . . .”

  Gabriel stopped and dropped his suitcase to the floor. Brenda and Oxnard took a step or two more, then turned back toward him.

  “Don’t say anything more about it,” Gabriel warned.

  “Why not?” Oxnard looked totally surprised at his reaction. “You could do away with . . . .”

  “He’s right,” Brenda agreed. “Forget about it. You’ll produce nothing but trouble.”

  Oxnard stared at them both. “But you could lower the costs of producing shows enormously. You wouldn’t have to hire any act . . . .”

  Gabriel put a hand over his mouth. “For Chrissake, you wanna start a revolution in L.A.? Every actor in the world will come after you, with guns!”

  Oxnard shrugged as Gabriel took his hand away. “It’s just an idea . . . might be too expensive to work out in real-time.” He sounded hurt.

  “It would cause more trouble than it’s worth,” Brenda said, as they resumed walking. “Believe me, a producer would have to be utterly desperate to try a scheme like that.”

  HONOLULU PINEAPPLES WIN EIGHTH STRAIGHT,

  38-6

  QB Gene Toho Passes

  For Three Scores

  Gregory Earnest stood beside the reclining plush barber chair, watching the skinny little old man daub Francois Dulaq’s rugged features with makeup.

  “What is it this time, Francois?” he asked, barely suppressing his growing impatience.

  Dulaq’s eyes were closed while the makeup man carefully filled in the crinkles at the corners and painted over the bags that had started to appear under them.

  “I gotta leave early t’day. Th’team’s catchin’ the early plane to Seattle.”

  Earnest felt startled. “I thought you were taking the special charter flight, later tonight. You can still be in Seattle tomorrow morning, in plenty of time for the game.”

  “Naw . . . I wanna go wit’ th’guys. They’re startin’ t’razz me about bein’ a big TV star . . . and de coach ain’t too happy, neither. Sez I oughtta get t’th’practices . . . my scorin’s off and th’guys’re gettin’ a little sore at me.”

  “But we can’t shoot your scenes in just a few hours,” Earnest protested.

  “Sure ya can.”

  Earnest grabbed the nearest thing at hand, a tissue box, and banged it viciously on the countertop. Dulaq opened one eye and squinted at him, in the mirror.

  “Francois, you’ve got to understand,” Earnest said. “We’ve stripped your scenes down as far as we can. We haven’t given you anything more complicated to say than ‘Let’s go,’ or ‘Oh, no you don’t.’ We’re dubbing all the longer speeches for you. But you’ve got to let us photograph you! You’re the star, for goodness’ sake! The people have to see you on the show!”

  “I ain’t gonna be a star of nuthin’ if I don’t start scorin’ and th’team don’t start winnin’.”

  Earnest’s mind spun furiously. “Well, I suppose we could use Fernando to stand in for the long shots and the reverse angles, when your back’s to the camera.”

  “He still limpin’?”

  “A little. That was some fight scene.”

  “Dat’s th’only fun I’ve had since we started dis whole show.”

  The makeup man pursed his lips, inspected his handiwork and then said, “Okay, mon ami. That’s the most I can do for you.”

  Dulaq bounded up from the chair.

  “Come on,” Earnest said, “you’re already late for the first scene.”

  As they left the makeup room and headed down the darkened corridor toward the studio, Dulaq put his arm around Earnest’s shoulders. “Sorry I gotta buzz off, but th’team’s important, y’know.”

  “I know,” Earnest said, feeling dejected. “It’s just . . . well, I thought we were going to have dinner tonight.”

  Dulaw squeezed him. “Don’ worry. I’ll be back Wensay night. I’ll take d’early plane. You meet me at th’ airport, okay?”

  Earnest brightened. “All right. I will.” And he thrilled to the powerful grip he was in.

  “But you can’t walk out on us!” Brenda pleaded.

  Mitch Westerly was slowly walking along the windswept parking lot behind Badger’s square red-brick studio building. The night was Arctic cold and dark; even the brilliant stars seemed to radiate cold light.

  “It’s h . . .
hopeless,” Westerly said.

  His head was bent low, chin sunk into the upraised collar of his mackinaw, bands stuffed into the pockets. The wind tousled his long hair. Brenda paced along beside him, wrapped in an ankle-length synthetic fur coat that was warmed electrically.

  “You can’t give up now,” Brenda said. “You’re the only shred of talent left in the crew! You’re the one who’s been holding this show together. If you go . . . .”

  Westerly pulled one gloved hand out of his pocket. Under the bluish arclamps the leather looked strange, otherwordly. The hand was trembling, shaking like the strengthless hand of a palsied old man.

  “See that?” Westerly said. “The only way I can get it to stop . . . make my whole body shop shaking . . . is to pop some cat. Nothing less will do the trick anymore.”

  “Cat? But I thought . . .”

  “I kicked it once . . . in the mountains, far away from here. But I’m right back on it again.”

  Brenda looked up at the director’s face. It looked awful and not merely because of the lighting. “I didn’t know, Mitch. How could . . . .”

  It took an effort to keep his teeth from chattering. Westerly plunged his hand back into his pocket and resumed walking.

  “How can anybody stay straight in this nuthouse?” he asked. “Dulaq is bouncing in and out of the studio whenever he feels like it. Half the time we have to shoot around him or use a double. Rita’s spending most of her time with that snake from FINC . . . I think she’s posing for pictures for him. He told me he’s an amateur photographer.”

  Brenda huffed, “Oh for god’s sake!”

  “And when she’s on the set all she wants to do is look glamorous. She can’t act for beans.”

  “But you’ve gotten four shows in the can.”

  “In four weeks, yeah. And each week my cat bill goes up. Earnest is making a fortune off me.”

  “Earnest? He’s supplying you with cat?”

  “It’s all legal . . . he tells me.”

  “Mitch . . . can you stay for just another three weeks? Until we get the first seven shows finished?”

  He shook his head doggedly. “I’d do it for you, Brenda . . . if I could. But I know what I went through the last time with cat. If I don’t stop now, I’ll be really hooked. Bad. It’s me or the show . . . another three weeks will kill me. Honest.”

  She said nothing.

  “Earnest has a couple of local people who can direct the other three segments. Hell, the way things are going, anybody could walk off the street and do it.”

  Brenda asked, “Where will you go? What will you do?”

  “To the mountains, I guess.”

  “Katmandu again?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. I’d like to try Aspen, if Finger will let me off the hook. I owe some debts . . . .”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Brenda said firmly. “B.F. will let you go, don’t worry.”

  He looked at her from under raised eyebrows. “Can you really swing it for me?”

  Brenda said, “Yes. I will . . . but what will you do in Aspen?”

  He almost smiled. “Teach, maybe. There’s a film colony there . . . lots of eager young kids.”

  “That would be good,” Brenda said.

  He stopped walking. They were at his car. “I hate to leave you in this mess, Brenda. But I just can’t cut it anymore.”

  “I know,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. You’re right, the show’s a disaster. There’s no sense hanging on.”

  He reached out and grasped her by the shoulders. Lightly. Without pulling her toward him. “Why are you staying?” he asked. “Why do you put up with all this bullshit?”

  “Somebody’s got to. It’s my job.”

  “Ever think of quitting?”

  “Once every hour, at least.”

  “Want to come to Aspen with me?”

  She stepped closer to him and let her head rest against Ms chest. “Its a tempting thought. And you’re very sweet to ask me. But I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Reasons. My own reasons.”

  “And they’re none of my business, right?”

  She smiled up at him. “You’ve got enough problems. You don’t need mine. Go on, go off to the mountains and breathe clean air and forget about this show. I’ll square it with B.F.”

  Abruptly, he let go of her and reached for the car door. “Can I drop you off at the hotel?”

  “I’ve got my own car.” She pointed to it, sitting alone and cold looking a few empty rows down the line.

  “Okay,” he said. “Goodbye. And thanks.”

  “Good luck, Mitch.”

  She walked to her car and stood beside it as he gunned his engine and drove off.

  PINEAPPLES CLINCH PLAYOFF SLOT

  AS TOHO LEADS 56-13 MASSACRE

  It’ll look like Orson Welles, Gregory Earnest told himself as he strode purposefully onto the set. Script by Gregory Earnest. Produced by Gregory Earnest. Directed by Gregory Earnest.

  He stood there for a magnificent moment, clad in the traditional dungarees and tee shirt of a big-time director, surrounded by the crew and actors who stood poised waiting for his orders.

  “Very well,” he said to them. “Let’s do this one right.”

  Four hours later he was drenched with perspiration and longing for the safety of his bed.

  Dulaq had just delivered the longest speech in his script:

  “Oh yeah? We’ll see about dat!”

  He stood bathed in light, squinting at the cue cards that had his next line printed in huge red block letters, while the actor in the scene with him backed away and gave his line:

  “Rom, we’re going to crash! The ship’s out of control!”

  Dulaq didn’t answer. He peered at the cue card, then turned toward Earnest and bellowed, “What th’hell’s dat word?”

  “Cut!” Earnest yelled. His throat was raw from saying it so often.

  “Which one?” the script girl asked Dulaq.

  “Dat one . . . wit’ de ‘S.’”

  ”Stabilize,” the girl read.

  Dulaq shook his head and muttered to himself, “Stabilize. Stabilize. Stabilize.”

  * * *

  This is getting to be a regular routine, Brenda told herself. I feel like the Welcome Wagon Lady . . . in reverse.

  She was at the airport again, sitting at the half-empty bar with Les Montpelier. His travelbags were resting on the floor between their stools.

  “I don’t understand why you’re staying,” Montpelier said, toying with the plastic swizzle stick in his Tijuana Teaser.

  “B.F. asked me to,” she said.

  “So you’re going to stick it out until the bloody end?” he asked rhetorically. “The last soldier at Fort Zinderneuf.”

  She took a sip of her vodka gimlet. “Bill Oxnard still comes up every weekend. I’m not completely surrounded by idiots.”

  Montpelier shook his head, more in pity than in sorrow. “I could ask B.F. to send somebody else up here . . . hell, there’s no real reason to have anybody here. The seventh show is finished shooting. All they have to do now is the editing. No sense starting the next six until we get the first look at the ratings.”

  “The editing can be tricky,” Brenda said. “These people that Earnest has hired don’t have much experience with three-dee editing.”

  “They don’t have much experience with anything.”

  “They work cheap, though.”

  Montpelier lifted his glass. “There is that. I’ll bet this show cost less than any major network presentation since the Dollar Collapse of Eighty-Four.”

  “Do you think that there’s any chance the show will last beyond the first seven weeks?” Brenda asked.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Thank god,” she said. “Then I can go home as soon as the editing’s finished.”

  The PA. system blared something unintelligible about a flight to Los Angeles, Honolulu and Tahiti.

  “That’s
me,” Montpelier said. “I’d better dash.” He started fumbling in his pocket for cash.

  “Go on, catch your plane,” Brenda said. “I’ll take care of the tab.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Give B.F. my love.”

  “Will do.” He grabbed his travelbags and hurried out of the bar.

  Brenda turned from watching him hurry out the doorway to the three-dee set behind the bar. The football game was on. Honolulu was meeting Pittsburgh and the Pineapples’ star quarterback, Gene Toho, was at that very minute throwing a long pass to a player who was racing down the sideline. He caught the ball and ran into the endzone. The referee raised both arms to signal a touchdown.

  Brenda raised her glass. “Hail to thee, blithe spirit,” she said, and realized she was slightly drunk.

  The guy on the stool at her left nudged her with a gentle elbow. “Hey, you a Pineapples fan?”

  He wasn’t bad looking, if you ignored the teeth, Brenda decided. She smiled at him. “Perforce, friend. Perforce.”

  Even though he knew better than anyone else exactly what to expect, the sight still exhilarated Bill Oxnard.

  He was sitting in the darkened editing room—more a closet than a real room. He knew that what he was watching was a holographic image of a group of actors performing a teleplay. (A poor teleplay, but that didn’t matter much, really.)

  Yet what he saw was Francois Dulaq, life-sized, three-dimensional, full, real, solid, standing before him. He was squinting a little and seemed to be staring off into space. Oxnard knew that he was actually trying to read his cue cards. He wore an Elizabethan costume of tights, tunic and cape. A sword dangled from his belt and got in his way whenever he tried to move. His boots clumped on the wooden deck of the set. But he was as solid as real flesh, to the eye.

  “You!” Dulaq was saying, trying to sound surprised. “You’re here!”

  “You” was Rita Yearling, who in her own overly heated way, was every bit as bad an actor as Dulaq. But who cared? All she had to do was try to stand up and breathe a little. Her gown was metallic and slinky; it clung in all the right places, which was everywhere on her body. She was wearing a long flowing golden wig and her child-innocent face gave the final touch of maddening desirability to her aphrodisiacal anatomy.