Dawn of a New Day (7 page)

“Hi, sweetie pie.”

Prue turned to find Leon Dicus approaching, and, as usual, he managed to put his hand on her, this time on her shoulder, which he kneaded with his strong fingers. “Why don't you and I go out and hit a flick tonight? Maybe get something to eat afterward?”

“All right. I'd like that.”

Leon Dicus's face assumed a comic air. “Why, I must've asked you a hundred times and you've turned me down a hundred times. You're gettin' smart, Prue.” He squeezed her shoulder again, then winked. “I'll pick you up at six thirty.”

“All right, Leon.”

Prue watched him walk away in that peculiar walk that athletes have, those trying to be athletes, at least. It was a sort of a rolling swagger, and he acted as if his neck were so muscular that he could not twist it around, so he turned slowly to face people. “Why did I do that? I can't stand him.” Prue knew with one part of her mind that she was getting revenge somehow on Mr. Spender, and Debbie, and even Mark. The bitterness that came to her did not allow for logical thinking. She lifted her head high and said, “I'll go out and have a good time.” She left the school and went home, determined to show somebody that she could have a life without a role in a sorry little high school drama.

The movie was
Dr. No
, starring Sean Connery and Ursula Andress. It was the second of the series that Prue had seen, and she enjoyed the smooth antics of British Agent 707. She thought Connery was amusing, and as for the feminine star, her chief claim to acting fame came from her curvaceous body, which she displayed at every possible opportunity.

In one scene where Ursula Andress appeared to her best advantage, Leon put his arm around Prue and pulled her closer. He whispered hoarsely, “Her name ought to be Ursula
Un
dress.” His wit, such as it was, amused him, and he kept his arm around Prue, constantly caressing her. At one point, his caresses became so objectionable that Prue jerked herself away and said, “Keep your hands to yourself, Leon! This is a public place!” He grabbed her hand and grinned. “We'll go to a private place then after the show.”

The private place proved to be something called the Blue Moon. When they pulled up in front, suddenly Prue remembered something. “Wait a minute!” she said as Dicus prepared to get out. “I'm not going in that place. That's where Bobby Stuart got into trouble and Maggie Satterfield was attacked.”

“You don't have to worry about that, baby. I been here before. I can handle any trouble that comes.”

Against her better judgment, and protesting all the way, Prue was dragged inside the nightclub. As soon as she stepped inside and looked around, her heart sank, and she knew she had made a terrible mistake.

Mark was up late studying; his parents had already gone to bed. He jumped when the phone went off right behind his head on the kitchen wall. Leaping up, he wondered who could be calling at eleven o'clock at night.

“Hello?”

“Mark—?”

“Prue, is that you?”

“Why—yes. Mark, I need you.”

Mark clutched the phone harder and said, “What's the matter? Where are you? You're not at home?”

“No. I'm out on Highway 28 at a Texaco station, the one right across from the water tower.”

“I know the place,” Mark said. “What are you doing there?”

“Please, don't ask questions! Can you come and get me?”

“Sure. I'll be right there. Do your folks know you're out?”

“I don't want them to know anything. Please, just come and get me, Mark.”

Fear shot through her voice, and she said, “Please,” in a whisper.

“All right, Prue. Don't worry. You stay right there inside the station. I'll be there in twenty minutes. All right?”

“All right, Mark.”

Mark hit the front door running, got into the Buick, the family's second car, and hoped that his parents wouldn't hear the engine start up. It caught at once, and he eased out onto the road, waiting until he got out to the blacktop before he opened it up. Floorboarding the accelerator, he shot through the night, a thousand things racing through his mind. He covered the distance in record speed, pulled up beside the Texaco station, which was still lit up, and by the time he got out of the car he saw Prue running toward him. Her eyes were wide, and her lips were trembling, and he said, “Prue, what is it?”

“Please, Mark, take me home.”

“Sure. Get in the car.” He walked over with her, opened the door, then shut it when she was inside. Quickly he moved back to his own position behind the wheel, put the Buick in gear, and drove away. Out of his rearview mirror, he saw the attendant standing outside scratching his head. Twisting his head, he saw that Prue was as far away from him as she could get, and she was staring out the window. He also thought he could see that her shoulders were trembling as though she were crying.

Reaching over, he touched her shoulder and said, “Look, Prue, you'd better tell me about it. What are you doing way out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Prue did not turn for a moment. She cleared her throat, searched through her purse for a Kleenex, and then blew her nose. Finally she turned and said, “I've been at the Blue Moon with Leon Dicus.”

“What?” Mark swerved the car as he turned to face her. “Have you lost your mind, Prudence Deforge?”

“Please don't scold me. You can't say anything that I haven't said to myself.”

Mark heard the plea in her voice and turned his attention back to driving. He said nothing, and she sat there quietly until he pulled in her driveway. “The lights are on,” he said. “I guess your folks are up waiting on you.”

“I know they are,” Prue said. She had regained her composure now and added, “Mark, thanks for coming after me.”

“Sure. That's okay.”

“I–I guess I owe you an explanation. You heard about Mr. Spender deciding not to let me be in the play?”

Mark swirled in the seat. “What do you mean? I didn't hear anything about that!”

For an instant Prue thought of telling him that it was Debbie Peters' idea, but she had no evidence, so she said, “I felt so bad, like I'd been cut off at the knees, and then when Leon asked me to go out, I guess I just was so desperate I accepted. It was awful! Everybody was drinking, and there are rooms there that couples kept going off into. I begged Leon to take me home, but he was drunk. He started to drag me into one of those rooms, and I tore away from him and ran out the front door. He chased me, but he stumbled, and I disappeared into the woods, and then I came out down the highway and walked to the Texaco station, and that's when I called you.”

She broke off suddenly, and Mark saw that she was crying again. He put his arms around her and held her close for a minute. “Look, we all make mistakes. You made one, so go in and tell your folks all about it. I hope your dad doesn't punch Leon out.”

“You do? I thought you might like that.”

“No, I'm planning to do it myself,” he said.

“Oh, please, Mark! Don't do that!” Turning her face to him, Prue touched his chest, and then she whispered, “I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for you. I was so afraid.”

She was soft against his chest, and her tearstained face was blurry in the moonlight. He did see her lips were trembling, and as he had done once before, he bent his head, meaning to give her a friendly kiss. It did not turn into that though. Her lips were soft under his, and vulnerable, and for a long moment he held her, and then she broke away. Her voice was thick as she whispered, “Mark, I've got to go in.” She left and went up the walk, wiping her face on a Kleenex as she went. She turned back and waved at Mark, then took a deep breath, and stepped inside the house.

The next half hour was as bad as anything Prudence had known. She was very honest with her parents, as she always had been. She explained how hurt she had been by being cut from the play, and how she had made a foolish decision. She saw the anger in her father's eyes and the muscles of his shoulders bunched up, but she went to him and said, “Please, Daddy. I know you want to go beat him up, but that would just make things worse.” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “You don't have to worry about him anymore. I hope I never see him again, or anybody like him!”

H
ey! You can't come in here!” Ossie Peabody, the drummer of Bobby's band, was well-built, but he had no chance against the burly man who simply pushed the door open and brushed him aside. Ossie made an angry noise, which caused Bobby Stuart to turn around and say, “That's all right, Ossie. Take it easy.” He was exhausted after a tiring concert. It had gone on for more than four hours, and he had given it everything he had. Bobby was accustomed to backstage visitors, but usually they were fifteen- or sixteen-year-old teenyboppers.

The man who entered the room looked like a truck driver. He was short, muscular, and had hands like hams. His smallish brown eyes were deep set and were regarding him carefully. For a moment fear touched Bobby, for he was not yet clear on the charges he had incurred back in Arkansas. The girl's parents, whatever her name was, were pressing it, and Bobby had paid a mint to lawyers. This man looked like a policeman, or maybe a process server. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Nothing, but I can do a lot for you.” The big man looked at Ossie and said, “Take a walk, fella.”

Ossie straightened up, preparing to argue, but something about the man's demeanor impressed Bobby. “That's okay, Ossie. Go get the car ready. I'll be there as soon as I finish with this gentleman.” He waved off Ossie's angry look, and when the door shut he said, “Now, what's up?”

“I'm R. D. Fitzgerald. Did you ever hear of me?”

Bobby swallowed hard and said, “Yes, sir! Of course I have!” He came forward at once, put his hand out nervously, and summoned a smile. “I'm glad to know you, Mr. Fitzgerald.” Fitzgerald had a grip like a Stilson wrench, and Bobby pulled his hand back before it was mangled. “Why don't you sit down.”

“Okay.” Fitzgerald pulled a cigar from his inner pocket, bit the end off, and spit it on the floor. He pulled out a kitchen match, struck it with his fingernail, and held it to the tip of the huge cigar until it was burning with a cherry red light. He then leaned back and blew a perfect smoke ring up at the ceiling. “So…you've heard of me.”

“Why, everybody's heard of you, Mr. Fitzgerald,” Bobby said. This might not have been strictly true, but people in the entertainment world, at least on the inside, had heard of one of the biggest producers in Hollywood. Bobby kept close track on this, for he had a great desire to make a movie. He longed to see himself up on the big screen, and now he sat down thinking,
This is it! He wouldn't have come to see me unless he had moviemaking on his mind!
“Your last picture was great, Mr. Fitzgerald,” he said. “I went to see it three times.”

Fitzgerald had a tough face, but pleasure moved across his features. “Glad to hear that. Always like to hear a good word about the work I do.” He blew another perfect ring at the ceiling, watched it until it dissipated, and appeared to have nothing to say.

Bobby thought,
He's pretty sharp. He knows I'm nervous, and he's letting it all build up. I can't let him con me like that.
He leaned back, stretched, and yawned, and said, “Were you out in the audience tonight?”

“Yeah, I caught your act.” He waited for Bobby to ask how he liked it, but Bobby simply stretched again and kneaded his shoulder muscles.

“Pretty tough being out there that long. Sometimes I think I'd rather be pumping gas at Exxon.”

This amused Fitzgerald. “No you don't, Bobby. You're doing exactly what you want to do.”

Startled, Bobby laughed. “I guess you're right about that. I don't mind getting tired. After all, that's what puts the beans on the table.”

Fitzgerald suddenly sat up straighter and said, “You're a pretty sharp kid. I've had my eye on you for a long time, and now I guess you know pretty well why I'm here.”

“From what I hear, you don't have any hobbies. All you do is work, so if you're here I guess you want to talk to me about some sort of project you've got on your mind.”

“Project. I like that. Yeah, a project. I got a project, all right. I want to put you in a movie, Bobby.” He grinned, for despite his determination to be cool, Bobby blinked and for a moment could not speak. “What else would I be doing here?” he demanded.

“Well, I think it's kind of strange, if you don't mind my sayin' so. I mean, all you had to do was send for me and I would have come to your office, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“I wanted to see you in action. Hadn't caught your act, and now all those screamin' idiots out there convinced me. If they'll scream at a concert, they'll scream at a movie. Right?”

“Well, I hope so. You understand that I'm no actor.”

“Ah, you don't have to be an actor. They won't come to see you act, they'll come to see you sing. Just give 'em that sexy look and swivel your hips, and they'll fill the theaters up.”

“What sort of a movie do you have in mind?”

“None at all. That's up to my people. They'll find something that will fit you and will be brainless enough so that the kids who have to move their lips to read will catch on to the plot. Lots of singin', lots of hip swingin', moonlight, and kissing. That's it. Are you ready to talk contract?”

“Why, you'll have to talk to my agent, of course.”

“That's all right. Dogs got fleas, and performers got agents—not much difference.” Fitzgerald heaved himself out of his seat and moved toward the door. When he got there, he stopped and turned around. “You're gonna be big, kid. I'm gonna see to it. See you around.”

As the door slammed, Bobby rose and was shocked to find that his hands were unsteady. He had to swallow twice before he could regain his composure, and then excitement flooded him. “It's all set,” he whispered. “This is the big break, and I'm going to grab for the brass ring!”

Two weeks later Bobby arrived at Universal Studios. He had gone to see his parents, expecting them to be as excited as he was. Instead he found them somewhat less so. Quite a bit less so, to be truthful. His dad had given him a lecture on how dangerous Hollywood was and how many stars had killed themselves, or died miserable and unhappy, and nothing Bobby could say would change his mind. He stayed for two days, and although his father hadn't said anything else, nor his mother either for that matter, he felt uncomfortable and finally left early for the studio.

His agent, Happy Miller, was there and had already laid the groundwork. From the time Bobby first arrived he was given the red-carpet treatment. One of the vice presidents, a short, clever fellow named Lar Delmont, showed him around the studio. He met stars that he had seen, some of them years ago, and attended a whirl of parties. It was fun, but Bobby's mind was on making movies. Finally he was given a copy of the script and assigned a musician to go through the score with him so that he could begin to learn the words to the new music. They were relatively simple tunes, and Bobby picked them up almost instantly. “Not the greatest tunes in the world,” he said to the piano player, whose name was Johnson.

“No, not what you're used to.” Johnson shrugged. “You'll have to make up the difference with a little jazz. You know the drill, Bobby.”

“I know; I'll practice that.”

The first meeting of the cast was something that Bobby looked forward to. He had been anxious to know who else would be in the movie, wondering if there would be an established star. He asked Mr. Fitzgerald, who grunted, “You don't want another star. They'll be looking at the star and not at you. This picture's to make you a star, Bobby. Don't you get that?”

“But won't there be anybody in it that's familiar? When I see a movie I like to know at least a couple of the people.”

Fitzgerald grinned. “You'll have Lannie Marr. You ever see her?”

Bobby tried hard to think, and then suddenly it came to him. “Hey, yeah! I saw her! She was in that movie with Dana Andrews. She was some kind of a gangster's moll.” He whistled slowly. “Boy, what a sexpot!”

“Can't act for sour apples, but she's got the body. She'll have to sweeten up a little bit. We're makin' this one for the kids.”

“I don't think you'd shock 'em much,” Bobby said with a smirk.

The cast met at one of the large stages at Universal, and Bobby was more nervous than he cared to admit. He was standing there uncertainly when a tall man with a mop of black hair came over and said, “I'm Abe Fontesque, your director. Glad to see you, Bobby.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Fontesque.”

“Come on in and let me introduce you to the people.”

Fontesque made the rounds, and Bobby met several people, but the only one he remembered after the meeting was Lannie Marr. She was blonde and had large, dark blue eyes. Her face was sultry, and her lips, even in repose, had a sensual quality. As for her figure—well, it had put her in the movies. Bobby remembered reading that she had been in girlie magazines, and even X-rated movies, and resolved to look into that. When he was introduced, he nodded, saying, “How are you, Miss Marr? I've seen your movies. Great!”

“Have you?” Lannie gave him a closer inspection. “I haven't been to any of your concerts. You'll have to give me one so I know what to expect.”

There was something in her voice, and in her eyes, that made her words seem to mean more than their dictionary meanings. Bobby was used to being successful with women, but this one was different. He said no more to her during the meeting but listened as Abe Fontesque outlined the work schedule. He listened only with half of his mind, for the other half was on the sleek woman who sat lounged back in her chair swinging one leg slowly. Her eyes came around to him and studied him as if he were an interesting specimen; then he saw approval come, and the lush lips turned up in a smile, and she nodded imperceptibly, almost. But he knew what Lannie Marr was thinking.

After the meeting, Bobby thanked Fontesque. “I'll do the best I can, Mr. Fontesque, but I may need a little help. All I've ever done is sing. That's different from acting.”

“That's all right. We got you an acting coach, and Lannie here will give you all the tips you need. We start shooting day after tomorrow,” he said. “Start on these first scenes, and we'll see how you do.”

Bobby turned and found Lannie Marr standing with her eyes on him. “Is it too late to go out and get a bite to eat, or do you have other plans?”

“That would be nice; I don't have any plans.”

The two of them went out to the restaurant of her choice, where she was apparently well known. After they ordered, Bobby looked across and said, “I don't mind telling you, Lannie, I'm scared green. I don't know beans about acting.”

The actress picked up her cocktail, sipped it, and then leaned forward, giving him an excellent view of her figure in the low-cut dress. “I don't think you'll have any trouble. You never have trouble with women, do you, Bobby?” The directness of her words and the boldness of her eyes startled Bobby, and this amused Lannie. She leaned back then and said, “We'll talk about it, and like Abe said, I can give you a few lessons.”

By the time the first scenes were due to be shot Bobby was nervous, almost terminally so. He made his way to the studio that morning, but everything he said onstage was stiff, and his movements seemed clumsy. Fontesque was patient enough, but at the end of the day's shooting he shook his head, saying, “Bobby, I don't want to make you more nervous than you are, but you're going to have to loosen up a little bit.”

“I'll do my best, Mr. Fontesque.” Bobby went to his dressing room feeling miserable. He had almost finished dressing when a knock came to his door. He got up, opened it, and found Lannie standing there. “Mind if I come in?”

“No. You might as well.” He tried to grin. “Nobody else is beating a door to the famous actor's dressing room.”

Lannie was wearing a dress made out of a thin, light blue clingy silk. It had short cap sleeves, a low, revealing sweetheart neckline, and a short, tight skirt with a slit up the right thigh. Her legs were covered with a pair of stockings with an opalescent shimmer, and her shoes were open-toed and had very high heels. She came over and stood so close that she almost touched him. “Feeling pretty low, aren't you?”