Killer Ratings: A Susan Kaplan Mystery Page 9

  7.

  Magic is often the word used to describe film-making. Magic hour. Magic time. Movie magic. “Let’s make some magic!” directors say, right before they yell “Action!” But the reality is, it’s repetitious, tedious, and boring. The actors sit around and wait more than they’re actually acting. The crew members rush around like crazy setting up a shot, then sit around and wait while the actors act. It takes longer to light a scene than it does to film one. The days are long, with crew members and actors arriving at five in the morning and not finishing until seven or eight o’clock at night. Behind-the-scenes jobs are usually passed down from father to son (there are few women in crew jobs) and the stars, once you meet them up close, have little glamour. The women are often thin to the point of anorexia, and both the men and women smoke too much and drink too much, and then spend more time at the gym than they do with their families. If there’s any magic to be found in film-making, it’s that glamour is so convincingly created for adoring audiences who are unable to see the reality of the tired and anxious-looking people underneath the makeup and expertly coiffed hair.

  But for me, driving up to location with Ray, it truly was magical. The crew was filming at the old St. Regis Hotel on Wilshire Boulevard, across from MacArthur Park (originally made famous by the song sung by Richard Harris in the sixties), about ten minutes from the heart of downtown and now closed. The area, once art deco heaven in the twenties and thirties, had now fallen on hard times, and the streets and park were havens for drug addicts, the homeless, and prostitutes. Only the St. Regis, with its graceful art deco columns and tall, thin, red stucco towers, remained a monument to L.A. in its movie heyday, when Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall graced its halls.

  The security guard waved Ray into the cast and crew parking lot that used to hold the Packards and Reos of the hotel’s guests back in the thirties and forties. Now it contained the makeup trailers, actors’ dressing rooms, and equipment trucks, painted in blue, with the Romulus logo displayed prominently on the sides. The lot was also filled with pick-up trucks and battered vans (the crew members’ cars, I assumed), interspersed with the occasional Mercedes and Porsches (the actors’ cars).

  Ray strode down the lot, and I hurried to catch up. The guard semi-saluted as Ray and I passed. “Coming to check things out?” he asked.

  Ray smiled. “Just making sure they can run things without me.”

  The guard smiled back, and Ray and I crossed through an open wire gate to the pool area which in turn led to the back entrance of the hotel. Dead leaves rattled around the bottom of the empty swimming pool, where I could still make out the faded mural of a nineteen-twenties-looking mermaid cavorting among the art deco-type flora and fauna. Extras, costumed to resemble the seedy inhabitants of nearby MacArthur Park, lounged around the pool, reading, sunning, talking among themselves, completely oblivious to the faded, but still beautiful surroundings. Despite the outcry from preservationists, the St. Regis was slated for demolition in another couple of months by developers who wanted to build yet another expensive, high density condominium in a city already filled with them. Every production company in town was using it as a location before it was destroyed. I looked up at the intricately carved moldings that bordered the windows of the now empty hotel rooms before walking inside with Ray.

  A crowd of people stood in the vast, echoing lobby, shouting orders at one another, efficiently moving lights and cameras, or sitting in directors’ chairs, reading magazines. Those who noticed Ray nudged their neighbors, concern on their faces. During the long breaks, they had probably checked their e-mails and the Internet on their smartphones, most likely having heard rumors of Rebecca’s murder. No one approached Ray directly, although when he greeted various crew members as he walked by, they smiled or nodded in return.

  The director, Mack Daniels, was sitting in his chair near the marble counter of the registration desk. Mack had directed several Babbitt & Brooks episodes that season and was often on the writers’ side of the warehouse, meeting with Ray during pre-production. Tall, craggy-featured, and in his late forties, he was Ray’s good friend and contemporary. Sandy had told me Mack and Ray both started out as gofers for low-budget movies, working their way up through the ranks together. Mack looked up as Ray approached, a large frown creasing his features.

  “Is it true?” Mack said, glancing at me, trying to remember who I was, I’m sure, before turning back to Ray. “Some of the crew’s been hearing rumors.”

  Ray nodded curtly, leaning close to Mack, speaking in a murmur. “You and I need to talk.” He steered Mack toward a quiet corner of the lobby.

  I knew what he was telling Mack, and I had little interest in following them. I stayed where I was, soaking up the sights and sounds of the velvet-curtained, frescoed lobby.

  None of the actors seemed to be in sight, much to my disappointment. I wanted to find a place where I could watch everything and still be out of harm’s way. I also realized I was starving, having skipped lunch while stuck in the warehouse. I had noticed a trestle table back in the parking lot, covered with a red-checked plastic tablecloth and bowls of what I hoped were food. Since nothing of interest seemed to be happening on the set, and since Ray was still in intense conversation with Mack, I decided to head back to the parking lot and get myself something to eat.

  The catering truck—or roach coach, as the crew affectionately called it—was nowhere to be found, lunch having been over for several hours. Fortunately for my empty stomach, snack food remained on the table, and I shoved my steno pad in my purse, grabbed a paper plate and piled it high with potato chips, pretzels, cheese doodles and an apple for dessert. The long tables with folding chairs used by the actors and crew at lunch were still present, and I saw Patrick Hager conversing with some of the drivers at the head of one of them.

  I sat down at the table closest to the food, facing the parking lot entrance, in order to keep an eye out for Ray in case he came looking for me. The dressing room trailers lined the entrance to the lot, and I also hoped I’d catch a glimpse of the actresses. I gobbled down the chips and pretzels and decided to help myself to seconds. I was too skinny from poverty to worry about my weight. Patrick looked up from his conversation, spotted me, said a few words to the drivers and strolled over.

  “If it isn’t my lady Susan,” he said. “What brings you to our humble midst?”

  Had Patrick not heard the news about Rebecca? It seemed strange given the attitude of the director and the crew.

  “I’m with Ray,” I said, cheeks bulging with potato chips. “Sandy left for the day.”

  “Is she all right? There has been gossip about Lady Rebecca, but surely it cannot be true?”

  “Um …” Suddenly, I had lost my appetite. Concern flooded Patrick’s features and he dropped the noble liege act.

  “It is true? She’s … dead?”

  “Ray’s talking with Mack Daniels,” I said, feeling uncomfortable. “Maybe you should talk to him.”

  “Where are they? Show me.”

  I tossed the half-eaten apple into a nearby trash bin and moved back toward hotel. “This way.”

  But as we neared the building I saw Ray cross the pool area and approach us from the opposite direction. Head bent, walking hurriedly. I think he would’ve walked right past us if Patrick hadn’t hailed him.

  “Susan, just told me. What happened?”

  Ray looked up, taking a couple of seconds to focus on us.

  “Patrick,” Ray acknowledged. “How’s it going? I’m on my way to talk to Gail and Tabby. I understand they’re in their trailers.”

  “Yes, they are,” said Patrick. “So, it’s true?”

  Ray took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Rebecca was killed sometime late last night. I want to tell Gail and Tabby in private, and then I’m going to make an announcement to the rest of the cast and crew. I’ve already told Mack, but he’s not going to say anything to anyone else. I’d appreciate it if you’d do
the same. They’ve all heard the rumors, but I want the facts to come from me.”

  “Of course,” Patrick said. His mouth hung open in a semi-gape, and I knew there were a zillion questions he wanted to ask. But Ray abruptly turned and headed toward the actresses’ trailers. Patrick and I watched him climb the metal steps to the first dressing room and knock sharply on the door.

  “Gail, it’s Ray. Can I come in?”

  Ray must’ve gotten a reply in the affirmative, because he opened the door and disappeared inside. Patrick turned to me.

  “What happened, Susan? Is Rebecca really dead?”

  I’m gonna get you for this, Ray, I thought as I looked up at Patrick and nodded. “I found her this morning,” I said.

  “Oh my God, Susan … How …? What …?” His papery skin looked paler than usual.

  I said, “Someone bashed her head in with her Women in Television Award. They stole her car and her purse.” More wishing than believing, I added, “It could be a robbery gone wrong.”

  Patrick stared at me, ignoring a white-blond cowlick that fell across his forehead. “Do they have any suspects?”

  I shrugged. “If they do, they’re not telling me.”

  “My God … It was you who found her?”

  Again I nodded. “I came in this morning, walked into her office, and there she was.”

  Patrick took my hand and squeezed it hard. “I’m really very sorry.”

  He released my hand as quickly as he had taken it, staring, unseeing, at the extras sitting around the empty pool.

  “Poor Rebecca,” he said. He sounded so genuinely sad and lost I wondered if maybe his flirtation with her had been more serious than I thought. Without the showy facade, Patrick was almost cute and definitely more masculine. Maybe he wasn’t gay after all.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Do you want to sit down or something?” Patrick gathered himself together with an effort and smiled crookedly at me.

  “I’m fine,” he said, although he didn’t look it. “We’ve got time on our hands before Ray makes his announcement. You ever been on location before?” I shook my head no. Patrick forced a smile. “Then I’ll give you the fifty-cent tour if you’re up to it.”

  “Only if you want to,” I said, feeling bad at how bad he was responding. She’s not worth it, I wanted to tell him. Don’t mourn for her. I doubt she would have mourned for you. But, instead, I kept my mouth shut and waited for Patrick to make the next move. He crooked his arm and said, “Then come, my fair Dorothy. Let me introduce you to Oz.”

  8.

  Patrick took me back into the lobby where electricians and grips and best boys were crawling on ladders, hooking up lights and moving cameras, all under the guidance of Rick Froehlich, the director of photography, who stood in the center of a graceful, curving staircase, reading numbers off his light meter. One male and two female standins stood patiently next to Rick as the camera assistant measured the distance from their chins to the camera. The lobby had been “dressed down” to resemble a once graceful hotel now serving as a shelter for the homeless. Looking at the threadbare, faded royal blue carpet and the once ornate sofas now scarred by cigarette burns, I realized the St. Regis did not have to stretch a whole lot in order to play the part.

  There wasn’t much room between the registration desk and staircase, and burly crew members kept pushing past me with an offhand, “Sorry, sweetheart” or a “Be careful, honey.” The show itself might have promoted a feminist viewpoint, but that didn’t necessarily extend to the people who worked on it. After about the fifth guy told me to “Watch it, hon,” I tugged on Patrick’s sleeve.

  “Okay. I’ve seen enough,” I said, trying to lead him back outside.

  As we crossed back to the pool area, an unshaven derelict with unkempt brown hair bore down on us. He wore a tattered and stained trenchcoat and looked like he had a six pack a day habit. To my surprise he held out his hand to Patrick.

  “Patrick,” the derelict said, “Jesse Mendez.”

  To my further surprise, Patrick shook his hand.

  “Of course. We’ve talked on the phone.” Now Patrick was friendly but businesslike. I wondered what he was like at home with no one to perform for.

  “That’s right.” Jesse looked pleased Patrick remembered him. “So, did you get to see any of the scene?”

  Obviously, this was an actor, which made sense, given the location was being used for a derelict hotel. In fact, I had probably met him myself. Actors auditioning for guest starring roles on the show always waited in the bullpen before their auditions, which were held in Ray’s office. I loved casting day because I always got to meet at least one actor who was recognizable from guest-starring roles on other TV shows.

  Patrick smiled. “I saw some of it,” he said. “Looking good.”

  Jesse turned serious. “You think so, man? You know, they started with Gail and Tabby’s close-ups first and, hey, I don’t mind, they’re the stars, right? But sometimes, you know, you do it once for the master, then off-camera for the ladies, and by the time it’s your turn you get in a rut. I just hope I pulled through for you guys.”

  Was he for real? Were Gail and Tabitha this insecure even on their worst days? But Patrick seemed to take it in stride because he clapped Jesse on the shoulder in support.

  “Jesse, you were terrific. Seriously.”

  “Well, you know, man, I try. Hey, who knows? Maybe the ladies will run into my character again, you know? I could be like a semi-regular, always with information they need about their clients and stuff.”

  “You never know,” said Patrick, who really didn’t know since he wasn’t in on the story meetings.

  Jesse smiled, encouraged, and his eyes flickered over to me.

  “I’m sorry,” Patrick said. “Jesse, this is Susan Kaplan. Susan, Jesse Mendez. Susan is one of the writers’ assistants.”

  “Hey, no kidding?” Jesse said, his brown eyes alight with more interest than my humble job warranted. “That’s really great.” He held out his hand and I tentatively shook it. “Nice to meet you, Susan.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I said. “Didn’t you guest star on Dress Blue?”

  Before Jesse could answer, Patrick squeezed my arm and said, “I’ve got to go. See you later.” He headed back toward the lobby.

  Jesse stared at me like he had just found the Holy Grail. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said.

  “You played that gang member. Muñoz.”

  Jesse was thrilled. “You remembered!”

  “Sure,” I said. “You stood out because of that scene you had with the rival gang leader. The one where he wants you to sign the treaty but you don’t and your sister and her baby get killed.”

  “That’s the one.” Jesse said. “You really liked it?”

  “I thought it was great. Dress Blue is one of my favorite shows.”

  “It’s a great show, isn’t it?” Jesse agreed. “But so is Babbitt & Brooks. It’s been a real honor working for you guys.” Honor isn’t exactly the word I would’ve used, but then, what did Jesse know? As Jennifer would say: He’s only an actor. “So, Susan,” Jesse said, “How long have you been working here?”

  “Not long. Only a couple of months,” I said, suddenly wary. I knew where this was going.

  “And you work for the writers?” Jesse said.

  I nodded, mentally searching for an excuse to leave. I glanced at the actors’ trailers, but there was no sign of Ray. Damn.

  “So, any more plans for my character … you know, in the next couple of scripts?”

  And there it was. The million-dollar question.

  “Gee, I don’t know, Jesse. I’m not in on the story meetings.”

  “But you get to see the scripts, don’t you? Before everyone else?”

  “Sure.” Stupid me didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut. “I type them into the computer.”

  “No kidding? That’s terrific!”

  “It has its moments.”

  “So, you’ll
know if I make a reappearance in the future?”

  “I guess,” I said. I was not feeling very good about this conversation and realized that Patrick had deliberately taken off on me— and for good reason.

  “Well, maybe I can give you a call sometime and you could let me know.”

  It was definitely time to cut and run. Although my mother taught me never to be rude, she had also never spent any time with an actor.

  “Sure, Jesse, you do that,” I said. “It was nice meeting you. I have to go now. I think Ray’s probably looking for me.” I turned around and started to walk away from him.

  “I’ll give you a call,” he said to my back. No wonder Jennifer and Sandy made fun of actors. I used to react in surprise at their scathing remarks about Gail, Tabby, and the other regulars. Now, I realized, their attitudes were not completely unjustified. Jesse wasn’t even a star and he was self-centered and self-absorbed. Well, maybe he wouldn’t call. I didn’t think the writers had any plans to bring his character back, so, I hoped, that would be the end of that.

  Thankfully, Jesse didn’t follow me as I made my way back toward the parking lot. I decided to wait near the trailers for Ray, still hoping to catch a glimpse of Gail or Tabitha—or any of the other Babbitt & Brooks stars.

  I was immediately rewarded. Ray exited Tabitha Wentworth’s trailer; Tabitha, wearing a worn pink robe over her dress, followed him. Small in stature, with a cloud of dark brown hair and wide, hazel eyes, she looked her usual aloof self, and I couldn’t tell how the news of Rebecca’s death had affected her. As they passed Gail’s trailer, Ray lightly ran up the stairs and knocked on Gail’s screen door.

  “I’m doing it now, Gail,” he said through the door. “Tabby’s coming with me.” He didn’t wait for a reply, just descended the stairs and rejoined Tabitha. The door slowly opened and Gail stepped out.