Stuart Kaminsky: Show Business is Murder

It was a decent living; not as rich as robbing had been, but good enough and much easier. I had no regrets about leaving my old line of business. The work came naturally to me. In essence, all I needed to know was when to smile and when to slap. Indeed, life in general can be reduced to this formula, as any study of history will quickly prove.

The TV life is an enjoyable one; drugs, food, and alcohol (sex, too, no doubt, if that is one’s preference) are all freely available, and available free. I indulged carefully. It’s always best to be careful.

Every now and then-and constantly, at the back of my mind-I wondered what Annabelle might have meant when she said she’d seen me working. I didn’t ask her. If she didn’t want to say, I wasn’t going to ask. You have to know when to smile.

I was confident she couldn’t have been one of my victims; she was quite the wrong sort for me. Besides, I have a good memory for faces. I can remember them all. Not the features, as such, but there was a particular look I used to scan for when I was working as a robber, something of the woman’s spirit displayed on her face, and that look always stayed in my mind.

She could’ve been a witness, it was possible, but if so how had she tracked me down? I am a fast worker, and a fast mover. Just chance, maybe-she remembered me, and then saw me again some time when I wasn’t working. Possible. London’s a big city, but the West End is a small town. It could be coincidence. Or doggedness, or professional assistance.

At one point, after we had been working together for a few weeks, Annabelle asked me if I was still working. I pretended not to know what she meant, and tried to change the subject. We were in the studio canteen, speaking quietly.

“Doesn’t bother me if you are,” she said. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with the show.”

The way she spoke it seemed almost as if she was encouraging me to continue in my old trade. I thought that perhaps she found the idea of it exciting, in an indecent way. There are such women.

ONE BRIGHT DAY,the traces of makeup sticky on my face, I was exiting the studios in the direction of the Underground-my work as a Bus Conductor Who Converses with Dead Passengers done for the day-when I felt an unsought and unwelcome female touch on my elbow.

“George? Or whatever your name is. Can I have a word? It’s about money.”

I turned, to greet an ordinary-looking young woman of the sort who makes a great effort with herself which doesn’t quite come off. I was about to smile at her, when I realised that I knew her face. I frowned. I had to hope that a frown, and the sunglasses, would be enough to save me.

“I’m in a hurry,” I said. “I have another appointment.”

“OK, sure, I’ll make it fast. My name’s Miranda-hi.” She put her hand out for shaking. I didn’t take it. She took a few nervous breaths and stuck her snubbed paw in her back pocket. “You’re in a hurry, I know. Sorry. Here it is: I admire your work, and I-”

“My work?”

“You own the screen. I’m not kidding. And at the same time, you’re so versatile that a casual viewer wouldn’t recognise you from one part to another. I, obviously, am not a casual viewer.”

How much could I trust the sunglasses? How much would the frown protect me? “I have to go.”

She scrabbled at her handbag-a small thing, chic or childish depending on your viewpoint, its strap looped sensibly over her right shoulder and under her left armpit-and pulled out a business card. “Give me a call. Okay? I think we could do good business together. But don’t tell Annabelle, whatever you do! She’ll kill me-probably kill you, too.”

She got in her car and drove off, and had hardly vanished around the corner before Annabelle was upon me. Her face was blotched red and white, her teeth were exposed, and her hair frizzed as if before a storm.

“What the hell were you doing talking to that bitch?”

“ She approached me, ” I said, my voice considerably quieter than Annabelle’s. “Apparently she knows you.”

“You’re telling me you didn’t know who she was?”

I shrugged. “Miranda something, that’s all I know.”

“Miranda something! Miranda Denny . She’s one of the best known talent spotters in TV. Or used to be. She’s been off sick for the last year, with depression or something. You’re saying you didn’t recognise her?”

“I swear to you I have never seen her before in my life.” I crossed my heart and kept my face straight.

“Well, all right.” Annabelle seemed calmer now. “Fair enough. What did she want?”

“I think she wants to employ me.”

“Oh, does she?” Annabelle put her hands on her hips. She stared through me, and bit repeatedly at her bottom lip. “Does she, the bitch? I’ll bet she does! Oh yes, that’s Miranda’s style, right enough. The bitch .”

“Well, you don’t have to worry, I’m not-”

“Do you know what I think I’ll do?” She stopped fidgeting, looked right into my face, her eyes glowing. “I think I’ll get you to kill her.”

I was aware that people in show business take their rivalries as seriously as Mafiosi take theirs, but even so I was somewhat taken aback. “Really?”

She nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think I will.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” she said. “My mind is made up. You’re to kill her, Jez.”

I took off my sunglasses and wiped the sweat from my eyes. “Why would I do such a thing? Annabelle, our relationship is based on business, not friendship. I owe you no favors, I am not under any obligation to you. What makes you think I would do you such an extraordinary service?”

Annabelle smiled. “Due to blackmail. If you don’t do it, I’ll tell the police what you do for a living.”

Did for a living, I thought, but didn’t say. “Any crime I may or may not have committed in the past has certainly been a lot further down the scale than murder. Even supposing you had something to blackmail me about, and even supposing you told the police, I would sooner be given community service for a lamb, than jailed for life for a sheep.”

“Do this for me, and you won’t have to do either.”

“I’m not a killer,” I said. “I’ve never killed, I never will kill.”

“We’ll see,” she said over her shoulder, as she left me standing alone by the back door.

“We won’t, ” I called after her. And I meant it.

On the other hand, and there was no gain in denying this to myself, Miranda’s death would be convenient and reassuring, should it happen suddenly and soon. She hadn’t recognised me today, I was sure of that, but if she saw me in the unadorned flesh for any length of time she certainly would. If she saw my eyes, and my smile.

I had no direct evidence to support my fear. I had never actually been recognised, on a tube train or in a pub, by a shop assistant or a tourist, but I was convinced I was right: Surely, no woman I had robbed could easily forget the slap, or the smile. Or really, I mean, the both of them together.

Even now, perhaps, Miranda’s memory was tickling her, whistling at her, trying to attract her attention. If so, eventually she would turn me in. If not, then she would pursue me, for professional reasons, and then she would remember me… and turn me in. And if she didn’t, it seemed now, Annabelle was quite willing to do so, the moment she feared she was losing control of me. Really-ideally-I could do with being rid of both of them. I felt it was time for me to move on, in any case. I was already thinking of sidestepping from people shows into, maybe, commercials. An actor must constantly seek to stretch his craft.