Jillian Abbott's - Queens Noir

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 us 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 ex-cop 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 us.

“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 long-lost 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 us, “ 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.