Curt Colbert - Seattle Noir

Mel muttered, “Henry Chow’s an ass.”

The next morning when Skippy woke, first thing he saw was the depressing saffron sky. He had no reason to get out of bed, so why was Mel rapping insistently on the bedroom door? Skippy sat up and yelled, “Go away! Don’t bother me!”

The door opened a crack. Through the space came Mel’s velvet voice. “Better get dressed, sport. We’ve got company.”

It sounded like a warning. Grumbling, Skippy burrowed into the sheets, but the scent of coffee brewing, of bacon broiling, eggs frying, wafted to his nostrils. Mel was so clever. He’d left the bedroom door slightly ajar so these delicious aromas would tempt Skippy. Sleep was impossible now. Skippy grumbled and rolled out of bed.

The table in the breakfast nook wore an aqua linen cloth and Mel had folded the napkins into swans. The good plates and Skippy’s mother’s sterling flatware were laid out. An artfully arranged fresh orchid centerpiece seemed too flamboyant. This table was celebrating something, Skippy thought, and then he saw Lana.

Perched on the bench, lumpy Lana sat at Skippy’s place, and with one of Skippy’s mother’s forks she picked at Mel’s home cooking. Mel stood on a stool by the stove flipping fried eggs. When Lana saw Skippy, she called out cheerily, “Surprise, surprise!”

“I don’t like it,” grumbled Skippy. “I don’t like surprises at breakfast.”

Mel smiled. “Why, Skippy, you’re up! Good, good. Lana’s got some great news.”

Lana flicked her wrist, dangling her bejeweled fingers. “Come, sweetie. Sit, sit.”

Begrudgingly, Skippy took a seat at the table. Mel waltzed over and poured Skippy coffee, then danced back to the stove.

“What’s this all about?” Skippy demanded.

“All about you, sport,” Mel bowed deferentially. “Your Eminence,” he crowed.

“Stop clowning! Stop it this minute. Can’t you see I’m out of sorts?” Skippy waved an arm at Lana. “You’re the last person on the planet I care to see right now. What are you doing here anyway? I didn’t invite you.” He shot a furious glance at Mel.

Through the rudeness, Lana said, “Don’t you want to hear the news, honeybunch?”

“Hey, don’t call me that. I’m your gravy train. Why don’t you just call me Gravy Train. Anyway, I’ve already heard the news from Henry Chow,” barked Skippy. “I know he’s got the part.”

A prickly grin crossed Lana’s face and for a moment Skippy thought that Lana Lanai might actually possess nerve endings. Still, when she picked up her coffee cup, watching Skippy over the brim, he didn’t like the expression on her face.

Draining the bacon grease, Mel sang, “Tell-l-l him-m-m, La-an-a-a.”

“You got the part.”

Skippy stared, not daring to believe his ears. Lana scooted over and embraced him. She may as well have embraced a cigar store Indian.

Mel sang, “Skippy Smather-r-r-s starrrrring in… Standing Ta-a-all. ”

Skippy stammered, “Is… is it… is it for real?”

“Hey, would we pull your leg?” Mel grinned devilishly.

Lana purred, “It’s not exactly on the dotted line yet, but I spoke with a production assistant this morning who overheard the producers talking. They were discussing you, raving about your great talent, your charisma, your magical screen qualities, your b.o.a.”

Box office appeal.

Skippy batted his hand at her. “I know, I know, I know.” She didn’t have to dote. He despised doting.

Mel arranged breakfast on the table, climbed into his chair, and said, “Hey, I’ll bet they didn’t even notice. I mean, about the growing spurt.”

Skippy felt his stomach churn. He jumped off his chair and fled.

The following afternoon, in Lana Lanai’s Hollywood office, the star paced anxiously. His walking cane made dull thudding sounds against the plush carpet. Mel sat on a long couch leafing through Vanity Fair , trying to ignore Skippy’s irritating third footfall. You’d think by now he’d have learned how to walk with that stupid cane. Across the room at the desk, Herself held court.

Two slick-buff film producers leaned over Lana’s chaotic desktop, their Mont Blancs poised over contracts. Mel wanted to snicker out loud. They were all alike, diminishing youth, Bosley hairlines, faceless personas consumed with star envy, converting their filthy riches into control-power-over the gifted artist. Exploiting the artist. Growing rich off the artist’s sweat, the artist’s inherent talents. Sure, they’d invest in a dwarf’s box office appeal, but would they take him out to dinner? Anyway, who remembers a producer’s name in the credits? It was all Mel could do to contain his loathing.

Skippy limped over to Lana, stood on tiptoe, and whispered into her jaded ear. Lana nodded tiredly and waved him away.

Skippy retreated. Lana smiled antiseptically at the producers.

“There’s just one more detail,” she said. “The understudy is to be Mel Rose. That is, should anything happen to Skippy. Which is totally a nonissue.”

The men with remarkable hair glanced up in unison, and in unison they said, “We don’t have understudies.”

“In this case, you’ll have Mel Rose. Or no Skippy Smathers.”

The producers gaped. One said to Lana, “You’re kidding,” and Mel heard derision.

Lana snickered in a way Mel didn’t like. “Otherwise, gentlemen, Skippy won’t sign.”

The producers huddled, conferring in earnest whispers. Finally, one said to Lana, “We’d counted on Henry Chow. If anything happened to our star, we’d made Chow our second choice. Everyone’s seen it that way. Skippy or Henry in the lead. Of course, we might find a bit role for Rose.”

Lana shook her head and studied her acrylic nails.

“Consider our position,” argued one producer. “We need really, really great talent in this role. We need a really, really brilliant actor.”

Mel really, really hated them.

Lana didn’t budge. “It’s Mel or no deal.”

Eventually Lana got her way. She usually did. She knew how. When all the contracts had been revised and initialed and signed, all the insincere handshakes wrung, Lana flung open her office doors to the entertainment media. Bee swarms made less commotion. The Hollywood press doted over Skippy. Fawned over him. Even the producers pawed Skippy now, and Mel noticed one of them pawing Lana. Totally ignored, Mel buried his face in the Vanity Fair and waited for it all to blow over.

On the way to the airport, in Lana’s limo, Skippy and Mel were sharing a split of champagne when Mel heard Skippy mutter, “God, I’m terrified.”

“He’s not that bad,” replied Mel, referring to the limo driver.

“I mean something else. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”

Mel said, “Lord help us, what now?”

“My limp. Getting worse all the time.”

“Translation, please.” Mel rolled extra brut around in his mouth.

“I’m still growing. I’ve completely outgrown my cane.”

“Tsk. Then buy another,” retorted an exasperated Mel. “Better still, give it up. It’s so phony.”

“You still don’t believe me.” Darkly.

“Hey, Skipper, would you just quit all this obsessing? You got the role, didn’t you? If you want to worry about something then worry about the first day of shooting. There’s something to obsess over.”

Skippy stared out the window. “I went to see a doctor.

About the growing.”

“And?”

“Got as far as the reception desk and panicked. Ran out of there.”

“Good Lord have mercy.”

“What if they notice?”

“I’m telling you, it’s not that noticeable yet. You’ve still got some time before it’ll really stand out.”