Scene Stealer (6 page)

“Miss Weidenmaier, would you mind handing me that pile of pictures? Got to find all these extras tout suite. There goes my nice hot supper. I'll be working the phone all night calling actors. It figures. Same movie that Willow Leigh's in. Nothing but trouble. At least I get a fee for the extras I supply.”

“Mr. Bean, what does an extra do?”

“Stand around or sit mostly. Background. People walking up and down the street. Sitting at a table talking or eating while the camera focuses on the stars.”

“Perhaps I could be of some assistance,” I said. “I've done a bit of acting and I'm certainly the right age for the society lady.”

Mr. Bean hesitated.

“One less actor you have to call.”

Mr. Bean nodded. “Doesn't pay much,” he said. “You'd be one of the non-union they're allowed.”

“Money isn't everything, Mr. Bean. I'm sure it will be a most interesting experience.”

Mr. Bean repeated the instructions as he escorted me to the door. “Here,” he said. “No sense wasting the coupon.” He handed me a coupon for a Brownie Bonanza. “Cute girls in Western outfits were handing these out on the streets. May as well try one, it's for free if you buy a Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Burger.”

Mr. Dunn wore a royal-blue smoking jacket and an ascot marked with a paisley print.

“A proper choice of wardrobe—casual but dignified,” he told Kevin.

“You look really great, Mr. Dunn,” Kevin said.

“My voice will be on the air tomorrow night, Kevin, and it is of no import that the television audience will just hear my voice via the telephone. Remember preparation shows in the performance. Practice day after day, hour after hour. My theatre audience will be disappointed, of course, all lovers of Shakespeare and the theatre will be disappointed. It hurt me too, canceling a legitimate stage performance for television. But I have to be practical. Television, Kevin, is a necessity in these crass commercial times. You will remember tomorrow, Kevin. It will be a memorable Friday, for after Friday, I shall begin my rendezvous with fame.”

“I love Shakespeare and the theatre too, Mr. Dunn.” Kevin smiled at his abductor.

“Fame will at last be mine and a bit of well-deserved fortune too. I have scrounged for years taking any job, I have at times, Kevin, demeaned my talent. Lived in the squalor of a cold-water flat where I suffered chilblains and heat rash while fighting a constant and losing battle with vermin. Now, one call to Norman Bottoms and my years of deprivation will end. I have paid my dues.”

Dunn glanced at his pocket-watch; Kevin watched him lovingly trace the name imprinted on its back. Mr. Dunn showed him the engraving:
O'Neill.

“The watch once belonged to that great American playwright, Eugene O'Neill. A fortunate purchase at a pawnshop, I'm sure the magnificent master of words wanted me to have his treasure. But I digress.”

Dunn picked up the sheet of paper and scanned the lines. “Friends, Bottoms, countrymen, lend me your ears.”

Gee, Kevin didn't want to interrupt Mr. Dunn but in Julius Caesar, Marc Antony doesn't say “Bottoms,” he says “Romans.” when he delivers his speech.

“I come to bury Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Burgers not to praise them.” Dunn paused, and Kevin tilted his head, confused. Why was Mr. Dunn talking about Cowboy Bob?

“The evil that men do lives after them…” Dunn skipped several lines. “Take heed—here I am to speak what I do know—” Lawrence Dunn reluctantly stopped reciting Shakespeare's words. “The baneful burger will be death in the pot. Robert Barton, the sponsor of Cowboy Bob's, is a cheat, a mountebank, an ass in lion's skin. He hath stolen the recipe for Cousin Cora's Cakewalks and will cheapen this dainty viand with inferior ingredients.”

That was a terrible thing to say about Mr. Barton, Kevin thought. Now Mr. Dunn was massaging his throat.

“The flesh of an actor's throat, my dear Kevin, should feel as soft as butter, then you must run through a series of vocal exercises designed to warm up the vocal cords. Who, ho, ha, how, hunt, hum, him, hem.”

Kevin watched as Dunn addressed his reflection in the three-way mirror standing in the far corner of the storage room. “Heavy, heavy hangs the head.”

Boy, Kevin thought, Mr. Dunn's training was sure different from PT's.

“Your tongue is nimble tonight.” Dunn addressed his image in the mirror. “Ringing and swinging. Ringing and swinging. O wind, a blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song.” Lawrence Dunn drew a deep breath, held it until his face threatened to turn purple, then expelled the air with a long, drawn-out hiss. He glanced at his pocket-watch again and turned toward the door of the storage room.

“I will see you in the morning, Kevin,” he said, bowed slightly, pulled out the keys to the door and left.

He was locked in the room again.

The basement storage room turned cold at night; Kevin burrowed into the thin mattress and pulled the black, velour drape he was using as a cover, over the bottom half of his face. Dust, caught in the folds of the musty drape, tickled his nose and made him sneeze. The sneeze woke him up and he couldn't fall back to sleep. He kept thinking about how mad Mr. Dunn looked when he came back into the room and told him his television show was cancelled and then he blamed him, Mr. Dunn scared him so much; he thought he was going to hit him or even kill him but all they did was rehearse
Julius Caesar
for hours before Mr. Dunn left.

His Cowboy Bob watch lit up when he pressed a button; it read eight o'clock. Cowboy Bob's lariat had lassoed the eight. There were no windows in the basement storage room and no way he could see whether it was day or night but it had to be 8:00 p.m. not 8:00 a.m. because he didn't have to use the empty, potato-chip can that served as his toilet. Mr. Dunn said he used wood shutters and burlap drapes to cover his windows in a railroad flat; Kevin wasn't sure what a railroad flat was but it must be awful the way Mr. Dunn talked about it. Mr. Dunn said cold air swept through every crack and crevice during the winter and in the summer an electric fan stirred the air and directed it over a cake of ice placed in the kitchen sink. The same sink he took his bath in; imagine taking a bath in the kitchen sink…ycch. When he told Mr. Dunn how cold the basement was at night, Mr. Dunn said he had to carry a heater from his bedroom to his kitchen. “One must suffer for one's art,” Mr. Dunn said. Geez, he almost felt sorry for Mr. Dunn, except then Mr. Dunn left him here. Was he suffering for his art?

Heels tapped against the cement floor. He sat straight up, dropping the velour. Someone was walking around the basement. It wasn't Mr. Dunn; Mr. Dunn wore soft leather, handcrafted shoes that were made in Italy. “An actor needs to indulge his feet. Shoes are my sole indulgence,” Mr. Dunn confided. Besides Mr. Dunn calmed down after they rehearsed Caesar and said he'd see him in the morning.

Could it be a ghost? Ghosts of dead actors wandered around theatres. If this theatre was haunted, he might bump into John Barrymore or Edmund Kean. Would they still be walking around? Maybe they would appear and help him. Probably not. Old actors didn't like children. Didn't like dogs either. Called them scene-stealers. Ghosts were silly anyway. “I'm too old to believe in ghosts,” he whispered. “Besides ghosts don't wear shoes. Ghosts glide everywhere—through walls and windows and trees—everywhere.”

A sliver of light appeared at the bottom of the door. It had to be someone coming to rescue him. Kevin scrambled to his feet. He'd better let them know he was in the storage room, then they could break down the door and he'd be on his way home. His mother needed him.

Keys dropped to the floor. Whoever dropped them cursed a blue streak. His mother always said people who cursed had a limited vocabulary. The door muffled the voice. Maybe it was more than one person.

He opened his mouth to shout, then closed it again. The police wouldn't have the keys to the theatre; they'd break down the doors. A private eye? Could Mr. Barton have hired a detective? A detective would call out his name. Maybe it wasn't someone coming to his rescue, maybe it was someone who wanted to wreck Mr. Dunn's theatre. Someone who had once been Mr. Dunn's prisoner or maybe…Oh Geez, if they had keys it was an accomplice of Mr. Dunn. Someone mean and rotten. His legs felt wobbly; the room was cold that was why. He wasn't scared.

Kevin's eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room; he'd better find a place to hide. He tiptoed toward the flats leaning against the far wall. Halfway there he remembered he slept in his undershirt. His pants and shirt and shoes were right next to the mattress. Whoever it was better not see his clothes; he picked them up and hurried behind a flat painted to look like a forest. The door creaked open and he made it to his hiding place just in time. Kevin concentrated on being still; as still as the trunk of a tree, a redwood growing in the forest for years and years and years.

He peeked through a hole in the muslin covering the flat. It was too dark to tell whether it was a man or a woman. Tall enough for a man and wearing pants but that didn't mean anything. The person searched the room with a flashlight, looking for something. If the light flashed on the hole in the flat, would his eyeball show? It was a good thing he hadn't called out; someone must be robbing the theatre.

If only he had Cowboy Bob's six-shooters and lariat with him then he could capture the varmint, tie him up and Lawrence Dunn would be bound to let him go. “Pard,” Dunn would say, “you done a good job, I'm beholden to you.”

The person walked over to the shelves that held the wigs and hats. The light hovered over first one hat then another. Finally, a hand reached out and picked one. The beam from the flashlight lit her face for a second. A woman. Why would she steal a hat from Mr. Dunn? He should call out. A woman, even if she were a thief, would rescue him, wouldn't she? While he was trying to make up his mind, she walked out the door.

Maybe the door would be left unlocked; he'd count to sixty to be sure it was all clear then he would escape and go home and tell everyone about his big adventure. A big movie producer might make a movie about it. His mother would be glad to see him. She must be worried and all upset by now. Maybe she and his father had got back together so they could find him. It would all be worth it if they had.

The key turned in the lock and he was stuck here, waiting for the morning when Mr. Dunn would arrive with a carton of milk and a Cousin Cora's Cakewalk. Sometimes Mr. Dunn was nice. He knew a lot of stories and he loved Shakespeare. Kevin liked Shakespeare too. When he grew up, he was going to play Hamlet. No one knew that yet except Patti. She had to know because she was going to be his manager. He hadn't told his mom or Mr. Bean; they'd just laugh at a nine-year-old boy wanting to play Hamlet. He didn't think Lawrence Dunn would laugh. Mr. Dunn never had a father. Kevin changed the subject real fast when Mr. Dunn talked about his childhood. One minute he was nice and the next, he'd be angry. His eyes would turn cold and beam through you like a laser. Kevin felt shivers running up his back just picturing Mr. Dunn's eyes. Dunn spoke very slowly when he was mad. So slowly he'd clip his consonants and leave spaces between each word. Kevin would hold his breath when he did that, not sure what would happen next. What did Dunn want with him anyway? Maybe it had something to do with Cowboy Bob?

How would he feel if his father forgot about him? That's what happened to Mr. Dunn. Maybe his father would forget if Dunn didn't let him go soon.

“I want to go home. I want to go home. Please, please God, I want to go home.” He could hear himself whimper.

Don't be a baby,
he thought.
Only babies cry. You're nine years old; nearly a grown-up. You have to take care of your mother. You're her little man. You're all she has.

“Spray the trees with a little more snow, gentlemen.” The film crew must have begun their day's work before the crack of dawn. Trucks, lights, trailers and army of actors and technicians had taken over a large section of Central Park. Cameras were being set, lights focused. Staff members, carrying walkie–talkies, hurried from one spot to another, relaying orders. I hadn't been up this early on a weekday since my retirement. My instinct told me today was going to be one of the longest Fridays in my life.

A long line of extras snaked around a table laden with coffee urns, platters of bagels, croissants, cheeses, jams and danish pastries. They managed to balance plastic utensils and Styrofoam cups while heaping paper plates with generous helpings of everything in sight. I would never have believed food could disappear so quickly. It was a testimonial to the legendary appetite of actors.

“Join the line before all the goodies become nothing but a gastronomical memory. I know I'm good for nothing if I miss my breakfast.” The ample girth of the man who suddenly appeared at my side proved that he seldom did.

“Have we worked together before?” he asked. “You look familiar. Don't tell me. I know. It was that soap last week, wasn't it? That eight-hour shoot at the Russian Tearoom. I couldn't sleep a wink that night; too stuffed with caviar and Chicken Kiev.”

“No. I nev…” I started to reply.

“Woody's new film?”

I shook my head. “My first job in motion pictures.”

“Still, you look so familiar. Perhaps the theatre or television? Well, no matter, I'll think of it eventually. I have a good memory for faces. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Harding Monroe.” He held out a small exquisitely manicured hand. “Careful when you shake. I earn most of my daily bread hand modeling.”

“I'm Augusta Weidenmaier. Hand modeling?”

“You are a novice. Commercials. My hands grace the television screen holding everything from soap to cereal. They used to be in great demand for cigarettes. Can't show cigarettes on the tube anymore. Too bad. Loss of income. Have to hustle a bit more.”

“I'm sure I've seen your work, Mr. Monroe.”

“Call me Harding. Unfortunately the rest of my bod isn't seen much these days. But,” Harding's face brightened, “that too has its compensations. The public doesn't tire of me.” He pulled a plastic bag from his jacket pocket and dropped in two pieces of pastry. “Here, put this in your purse, we may need a snack later.”

“Check in with me, please!” A young woman, holding a clipboard and wearing an air of importance, raised her voice and stared in our direction.

“Come on.” Harding placed his hand on my elbow and guided me toward the woman. “These PAs think they're real hot shots.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Really, my dear, they couldn't be any lower on the totem pole. Production Assistants. In reality, glorified gofers.” There was a touch of disdain in the way he enunciated go-fer, but his manner changed as we neared the assistant.

“Darling,” he gushed. “Remember me? Harding Monroe. So nice to be working with you again.”

The PA placed a check next to his name.

“Pick up your voucher, then report to wardrobe.” She gestured toward another assistant sitting at a folded table next to a trailer. “Name?” The girl turned her head in my direction without lifting her eyes from the list attached to her clipboard.

“Augusta Weidenmaier.”

The PA flipped a page and scanned the sheet.

“There she is. Halfway down the page, dear,” Harding said. He again took my elbow and we walked toward the second assistant.

“You've done a good deal of extra work?”

“Oh, darling,” Harding replied. “Since radio died and theatre remains the fabulous invalid, film work is one of my mainstays. The cinema has rescued many an actor.”

Harding had just begun his instructions on the proper way to fill out the voucher, when a policeman left the trailer followed by a harried-looking woman dressed in a smock decorated with safety pins and cigarette ash.

“Don't eat another mouthful, Clive,” she said to the policeman, without dropping the cigarette that remained glued to her lip. “Your pants will split.”

“Sweetheart, let them out,” Clive replied.

“There is nothing left to let out. Another bite and you'll end up mooning the audience.” She turned her attention to Harding. “Maroon sweater for you, watch-cap to match. You do skate, don't you, dear?”

“Certainly, darling. One of my many skills,” Harding assured her. “And this is a friend of mine, Gussie Weidenmaier. I know you'll take good care of her, darling.”

The woman dropped another ash and focused on me. “Society lady. Definitely. Waltz?”

“Darling,” Harding said. “You've heard of the Harvest Moon Ball? In her day, Gussie won many a contest.”

Gussie, I thought. I hadn't been called Gussie in years. As for winning contests, I remembered being a wallflower at high-school dances. At 5'8”, the opposite sex considered me much too tall for partnering.

“Right.” The woman took my arm and yanked me into the trailer. “Try this.”

I couldn't breathe. The lime-colored dress proved much too snug for my rib cage. A mauve, two-piece print was several sizes too large. The wardrobe woman rummaged amongst the racks and finally tossed me a burnt-orange crepe with shoulder pads more suited to Knute Rockne than a schoolteacher.

“Finally,” she said. “The perfect dress.”

“You have a most interesting job, don't you, dear?” I said, belatedly remembering my purpose in taking the job as an extra.

“Don't kid yourself,” the wardrobe woman said. “My legs have varicose veins, my back is killing me, my stomach is earning an ulcer and I smoke too much. Interesting, hah.”

“Still, the stars you work with must be fascinating and I'm sure Willow Leigh is a charming young woman.”

The woman shifted her cigarette and placed a number of straight pins between her lips. “The kid's all right,” she managed to say.

“Takes after her mother?”

A pin dropped to the white-sheeted floor of the trailer.

“You are new to the business, aren't you, dear?” She took a step back and considered the burnt-orange crepe, then selected a stole of fox fur and draped it over my shoulders. The glass eyes of the little creature stared at me.

“You're almost ready for society, Gussie,” the wardrobe woman said and handed me a pair of long white gloves. “Just stop by make-up. Two trailers to the right.”

The trailer was full; I waited and waited and waited. Making a motion picture seemed a long, drawn-out process. Not quite what I expected. I wanted to have my little talk with Willow Leigh's mother, but saw no way to find her, much less start talking. It would be nice to get on with it.

An elderly gentleman, dressed in a tuxedo, sensed my impatience and tried to initiate a conversation. My word, I wanted to concentrate on my mission. Fortunately, I was called into the make-up trailer.

A cosmetician eyed me critically, squinted, sighed, then dabbed and smoothed a pale cream base all over my face.

“Something wrong, dear?” I asked, adopting the overly friendly idiom of theatrical endearment.

“I've seen worse,” he said. “Don't mind me, I've got a headache. Too much caffeine.” He picked up a cardboard container and took a sip. “Vile.”

“I suppose you make up all the stars?”

“Haven't latched on to one yet. The big stars have their own make-up artists. Willow Leigh just got one. Her own hairdresser too. Can't say I envy them. They make the big bucks and get screen credit, but they have to put up with Lorna.”

“Who is Lorna?” I saw the opening I'd been hoping for, and took it.

“Willow's mother,” a reedy tenor voice said. “Take it from me, darling, a bitch in heat. Miss Thing thinks she's the one starring in the film.”

I peered from beneath eyelashes, made heavy with mascara, to see who would make such a declaration.

The tenor, armed with a spray can and scissors—his glossy, black hair pulled back in a pony-tail—studied my face then attacked my head with a brush and comb.

“I have just the chignon for you,” he finally said, rummaging amongst different colored hairpieces cluttering a shelf. He anchored the knot of hair to my head with a multitude of pins that he seemed to store in his mouth. A common receptacle, I noticed. By the time he stepped back and surveyed his handiwork, my scalp felt like a pincushion but he seemed satisfied.

“I do love a challenge,” he said before blasting the arrangement and contaminating the atmosphere with great clouds of hair spray.

“Did you ever fix Mrs. Leigh's hair?” I asked.

“Once,” he said. “When Willow was doing all those auditions for the Big, Bad Burger commercials. In all modesty, I must say I outdid myself. Lorna's frizzy hair is the pits to work with. She loved the ‘do.' That was when she thought that Barton was serious. Of course, he dropped her. A man would have to be desperate to stick with Lorna. Besides Barton likes to date women who either get their names in the gossip columns or advertise the freshness of youth.”

“Mrs. Leigh was upset?”

“Darling,” the hairdresser said as he tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear, “she makes Lady Macbeth look like Goody Two-Shoes.”

Before I could ask another question, he turned and shouted through the open door, “Anyone need to be touched up?”

Harding offered his hand and I descended the steps feeling every inch a society matron. Amazing, I thought, what a little make-up and a costume could achieve. Eyes, teeth, hair, complexion. Never before had I been so conscious of my appearance.

“Harding,” I asked, “when do we begin?”

“It's hurry up and wait in the picture business, darling.”

Outside a third trailer, a glowing adolescent was being fussed over. Her hairdresser finished combing the last strand of the child's auburn hair and her make-up man, after deliberating over a small case filled with powders, brushes and creams, stepped in and began to paint her face.

“Is that young lady Willow Leigh?” I asked Harding.

“Gussie! What planet have you been living on? Of course that's dear Willow.”

“Do you know her?”

“I make it my business to know everyone,” Harding said. “Contacts are extremely important in the motion picture industry.”

“I would appreciate an introduction, Harding.”

An older version of Willow, still beautiful but slightly faded, stood watch; a sentry at her post.

“You can't just walk over and talk to a star, Gussie. Lorna doesn't like strangers hovering around,” he said a bit pompously.

“If you introduce me to Mrs. Leigh, Harding, I won't be a stranger.”

Harding was about to refuse when Mrs. Leigh beckoned to him. Forgetting my presence, he walked, as rapidly as his small feet would allow, to her side. I followed.

“Good morning, darl…” he began.

“Harding,” Mrs. Leigh interrupted. “I can't find a PA anywhere. The little gophers are never around when you need one. Would you be a love and get my sweater? It's in our trailer.”

“Certainly. My pleasure, darling.”

I cleared my throat. Harding's lips pursed with annoyance but he made the introduction.

“This is Gussie Weidenmaier, new to our business. I'm taking her under my wing, so to speak. This lovely lady, of course, is Mrs. Leigh.” Harding bustled off then glanced back, apparently surprised at my not dogging his heels.

I crossed my fingers and smiled at Mrs. Leigh. “I find myself doing the most extraordinary things to get a story. I have been wanting and waiting to interview you.”

Mrs. Leigh acknowledged me, a glimmer of interest in her eyes.

“A short article, in first person, on film making in New York City.” I lowered my voice to a confidential whisper. “
New York Magazine”.
I flashed my library card at Mrs. Leigh. The woman had no idea what it was; I had guessed right that she was too vain to wear glasses.

“Author's Guild of America,” I said—fabricating again. “And then, of course, there is my book. Meeting you is most fortuitous. Could you spare me a few minutes of your valuable time?”

“Why?” Mrs. Leigh placed a cigarillo between her carmine lips. Willow's make-up man jumped to her side and offered his lighter.

“I'm writing a book about the people who nurtured and encouraged the legends of yesterday, the stars of today, tomorrow's legends. I've already completed a chapter on Mozart's father and Napoleon's aunt.”

“You want to interview me?” She managed to sound both skeptical and pleased.

“You are Willow Leigh's mother?”

“Guess I have time,” she said. “Takes forever before they're actually ready to shoot a scene. Deadly dull. It's boring, my dear. Simply boring. Tedium reigns. We can sit down over there.” She pointed to two canvas director's chairs that had been placed under a large shade tree. One had “Willow Leigh” stenciled across its back, the other read “Willow Leigh's Mom.”

We walked toward the shade tree, Mrs. Leigh's spike-heeled shoes leaving a trail of small holes in her wake. A young man hurried past us as we walked. Mrs. Leigh called him back.

“Kid, we'll be sitting over there. Bring us a couple of coffees.”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Leigh.” He forced a smile and reversed his steps.

“The park is crawling with production assistants, all dreaming of becoming big directors. Might as well do something useful like gopher our coffee.”

She sat down, removed her shoes and massaged the ball of her right foot as we talked. “Okay. What would you like to know?”

I pulled out my memo book and pretended to take notes, asking the typical background questions I presumed every biographer would ask and gradually leading up to what I really wanted to know.