Queens Noir (13 page)

He has on a billowy white shirt that looks like it's from
one of those Shakespearean movies-it's hanging over his
wiry shoulders and flared out past his nonexistent hips. On
his small feet are a pair of genuine wooden clogs.

We make eye contact and he quickly figures out why I'm
here. The actor and the director head back to the set. I search
around for a couple of guys who I can recruit to help me.
When I turn back, the little guy is standing right next to me.

"Have you seen Tony Soprano?" he whispers in an Italian
accent. His eyes are bright, even in the dark, and his breath
smells of cheese.

"Quiet on the set!" The alarm bell rings, signaling that
the camera's about to roll. I grab his skinny arm but he twists
around and frees himself from my grip.

"Action!" The director cues the actor, who begins his lines.

"I'm a doctor, so people are surprised when I tell them that I
suffer from irritable bowel syndrome."

No one is watching me or the imp as he makes his way
behind several clients from the pharmaceutical industry who
are engrossed in the actor's performance. Imagine spending
a good part of your career having meetings and conference
calls about irritable bowels. I squeeze past them and follow my
quarry who is creeping closer to the set.

"If you suffer from irritable bowel syndrome, do like I did. Call
your doctor. Side effects include stomachache, fever, bloody stool,
and on rare occasions, death."

This time the actor does not laugh, but the imp does, as
he dashes right in front of the camera.

"Cut!" What the ... ?" The director is about to have a
nervous breakdown.

I know better than to follow the imp in front of the camera. I figure there will be enough people waiting to kill him
for messing up this shot. Someone switches on the overhead
lights just in time to see him open the door and scurry out.

The first year The Sopranos shot here were my hardest as
a security guard. We had the press, fans, everybody coming
by asking to speak to the fictional mob boss, Tony Soprano.
We even had real gangsters come around. It wasn't easy turning these kinds of fans away. We had to hire two extra security
guards to handle the crush. But now the show is winding down.
The actors are bored. The reporters have moved on. Things
were getting back to normal until this clog-footed fruitcake
came along.

I go out into the hall but there is no sign of him. I call Kenneth on the walkie but he doesn't answer. He's probably in the
john, making room for another meal. Did I say he'd last two
weeks? Make that one.

As I struggle to put my walkie back in its cradle, the imp
exits a john and sprints into the stairwell. By this time I'm
joined by the actor/doctor, the director, and several guys from
the crew.

We follow him up one flight. My heart is thumping. He
better hope I catch him before the director does. I can see the
tabloid headline: IMP MAIMED AT SILVERCUP. We chase
him down the narrow hall toward the Wall Street herd waiting to go on set. Because he's limber and small, the imp cuts
through the crowd barely touching anybody.

"Stop him!" I yell out.

A few of the actors look at me like I'm a 300-pound
woman who just walked into a gym. Let's face it. In a place where there are actors and little guys in clogs, I'm the odd
one. Thankfully, a banker type catches on and grabs the imp
from behind, lifting him off the ground. An actress who looks
like an H&R Block agent screams. Everyone panics.

Coffee and bagels splatter and fly into the air. This is the
imp's second big mistake. You don't mess up a director's shot
and you don't spill coffee on an actor's wardrobe before he goes
on. I start to feel sorry for the little guy, until he reaches back and
grabs his captor by his private parts and gives them a yank.

"Aaaah, Christ!" groans the actor, who lets go. The imp
lands on his feet and darts toward the east end of the building.

Now this is where it gets interesting. I couldn't make this
up if I wanted to. It's the kind of stuff that Hollywood pays big
bucks for. I got to remember to put that in the screenplay I'm
writing. Did I mention that I'm writing a screenplay?

The light outside of the Home Shopping Network set is
flashing red. This means only one thing: No one can enter.
They're shooting. I've seen movie stars stop in their tracks
when they see it. Directors, producers, even the boss. But the
imp ignores it and, once again, goes in without hesitation.

I move to stop the others from following him, but then
I realize I don't have to. The consequences of entering a set
when the red light is flashing differs from set to set. It can be
anything from a stern talking-to, to getting punched out by a
Teamster, to having the cops called in to haul you away. Home
Shopping has a full-time bodyguard and ex-cop named Zack,
who carries a .38. Whatever happens, it's going to be the last
set the imp crashes.

I wonder how long it will take for Zack to spot him. As soon
as I finish the thought, the doors burst open and Zack emerges
with the imp tightly pinned under his arm and a meaty hand
clamped over his mouth. None of its say anything.

Ready for revenge, we all silently followed Zack down the
hall to the bathroom. It's like watching David and Goliath.
Man, the little guy is strong. His arms bulge like small cantaloupes and his legs are like iron rods. Every time Zack tries to go
through the door, the imp's arms and legs stop him. This goes
on for a while until the imp bites down on Zack's hand. The excop screams like a eunuch and drops him to the ground.

We don't waste time. We all dive on top of him, arms and
legs grabbing and pulling at other arms and legs. I swear I
have him until I find myself pinned to the ground by a sweaty
stockbroker. A Teamster has to be stopped from strangling the
director. By the time we realize what's going on, the imp has
wiggled out from under its.

"Ciao!" he calls over to us before entering the stairwell a
couple of feet away.

I watch Zack and the others follow him up. The next floor
is administrative and is rigged with an alarm. His only option
is the rooftop, and from there he'll be trapped. So I save myself the climb and take the freight elevator to the roof.

A couple of years ago, the boss had a series of solar panels
and plants installed to help generate electricity for the building. I thought it was a crock myself, but apparently it works.
At least it's gotten the boss off our backs about portable heaters and keeping the doors open for too long, and in August I
can take home all the tomatoes I can eat.

On three sides of the building, Silvercup Studios is encircled by two exit ramps to the Queensboro Bridge and the
elevated subway tracks of the 7 train. Four flights down is the
street. Unless the imp can do like Spiderman and climb brick,
he's mine.

Row after row of raised square planting beds lie next to
solar panels angled to the east. Large generators, the size of trucks, stand off to the west side harvesting the energy. Above
me is the towering S of the famous SILVERCUP sign that
lights up the entrance to Queens from the bridge at night.
The sign stretches from one end of the building to the other,
above the elevated tracks of the subway.

I walk to the west to get a better view of the roof and spot
the imp standing under the P, waving at me like I'm his longlost sister.

I don't like coming up here when it's not warm, especially
on days like today when there's nothing but gray clouds and
a damp wind that cuts through my thin uniform right to my
bones. I can't wait to get my frozen hands on this little creep.
But before I start after him, Zack and the others come bursting out of the rooftop door like the Canadian Mounties, only
without the horses.

We spread out and begin walking slowly toward him, just
like in the movies, but the closer we get, the further he backs
away, until finally he reaches the far edge of the building. Listen, I don't want the imp to jump. His death is the last thing I
need on my conscience, so I motion for everyone else to hold
back while I try and talk to him, even though the traffic
from the bridge and the trucks unloading below make that
impossible.

I wish I could tell you that I get him to move from the edge
or that he drops that stupid grin and runs sobbing into my
arms, but things like that only happen on television. Real life
is much more complicated. Instead, he rubs his hands along
his thighs and then, with an operatic flourish, he calls out to
its, "Arrivederci!" Then he turns around and jumps.

I must've looked like the wide-mouth bass in the window
of the fish store on Queens Plaza South. At least that's what
I felt like: a cold dead fish. I ran with the others to the edge, expecting to see Italian sauce splattered all over the pavement
below. Just one story down, however, there's the imp, rubbing
his hands on his thighs again and grabbing hold of a rope
hanging from the 25A exit ramp of the Queensboro Bridge.

I forgot that this end of the building has an extension to
it: a freight garage that's only three stories high, connected to
the main Silvercup building. It looks like he got into the building by lowering himself from the exit ramp to the garage and
then climbed up the emergency fire ladder to the main building. When I tell the boss about this, he's going to lose it.

I decide not to follow him, especially since he's scurrying
up that rope faster than an Olympic gymnast. Besides, now
that this jerk's off the premises, he's no longer my problem. If
this were a television show, it would be a good time to cut to
commercial. I could use a donut and a hot cup of coffee, only
my curiosity is getting the better of me.

We all stand there and watch as he scurries up the rope
jammed between the crack of the concrete barrier and onto
the exit ramp to 25A. He loses one of his clogs but it doesn't
faze him. Like a tight-rope walker, he steps along the ledge,
against traffic, to exit 25, which runs parallel to 25A, but then
veers off and under the elevated subway tracks of the 7 train.
Once he's on exit 25, he crosses the lane and hops up on the
ledge again and reaches for another rope. This one is tied to
the iron gridwork that holds up the track, and instead of going
up, he goes down. We lose sight of him behind the Silvercup
parking lot, so we all rush to the west end of the roof just
in time to see him running, with one clog, up Queens Plaza
South toward the subway entrance a block away.

The End.

Or so I think.

A week later, I'm sitting with Kenneth at the desk (yes, he's
still here and he's five pounds heavier) and we're reading the
News. A headline screams, ALIEN ACTOR NABBED BY
HOMELAND SECURITY, and there's a picture of the imp,
smiling for his close-up.

His name is Aldo Phillippe and he's a street performer
from Naples who overstayed his visa. He came to the United
States to do three things: meet Tony Soprano, get discovered
for the movies, find a wife.

According to the paper, Aldo decided that a good way to
get publicity was to climb to the top of the Statue of Liberty,
crawl through the window of her crown, and sit on her head.
You probably think they caught him because they have better
security over at the Liberty, but it wasn't that. According to
the article, they had to close the visitors' center and chase
him around for over an hour. The only way they caught him
was by cornering him at the tip of the island, and evidently
Aldo can't swim. If he's lucky, they won't send him to Guantanamo Bay.

I keep Aldo's clog on my desk filled with pens for people
to use when they sign in. No one notices it except when the
director and actors who were with me that day come back to
work. Everybody else is too busy making entertainment.

he way their banner-blue uniforms pressed up against
each other-the wilting collar corners, her twitchy
cocktail apron and his regulation pinman trousers-I
was only a kid, but I knew it was something and it made my
head go hot, my stomach pinch. Eddie worked the alley, made
the lanes shine with that burring rotary machine. Carol slung
beer at the cocktail lounge, heels digging in the heavy carpet,
studded each night with peanut skins, cigarette ashes, cherry
stems.