Curt Colbert - Seattle Noir

“Then you have noticed it.”

Mel sighed. “Maybe a little. But it’s too slight to get worked up over. Hey, sport, settle down. Look out there. That’s Hollywood, baby, and it’s all yours.”

The thorny subject was not raised again until the first week of shooting, when Skippy came home for a visit, limping up the drive. As usual, Mel was lounging on the chaise reading Variety. When Skippy got close enough, Mel saw the deep frown. He put down the magazine and went to fetch Skippy’s luggage.

Mel grabbed the suitcase out of Skippy’s limp hand. “Now what?”

Skippy leaned hard on his cane. “They’ve got the Little People’s Chorus in the scene we shot today? You know Ruby Lee, the lead singer? I ran into Ruby on the set and she commented on how I seem different since she last saw me. I asked, ‘Different how?’ Ruby Lee said I looked taller. Then this afternoon Lana visited the set. Said she’d noticed I was growing. Just like Ruby Lee. Lana said if I didn’t stop growing, the producers would drop me. I don’t know if the director-”

“Autry noticed it too.”

Skippy missed that it wasn’t a question but a statement. He said, “According to Lana, Autry told her they can’t be remaking costumes every five minutes, and besides, he said, an overgrown dwarf’s no good to anyone. Lana says that includes her. Those were her exact words. Then, in a flash, I had this vision of my future. They notice me growing even taller. They drop me from the film. I can’t get work. No one wants me anymore. All along, they only wanted me for my size. Lana’s right. No one will hire an overgrown dwarf. Not in this business. I’m through, Mel. My career is finished.”

Mel put a hand on Skippy’s shoulder and said, “Lana called about ten minutes ago. I’m afraid she had some very bad news.”

Skippy turned pale. “Autry?”

Mel nodded gravely. “There was an escape clause. Something about a change in your appearance being grounds for nullifying the contract.” Mel sighed.

Skippy began sobbing.

Mel said, ”What you need, sport, is a cocktail. Now, come on inside, let me fix you a daiquiri. And if it’s any comfort, we already have enough stashed away for retirement. The world is not coming to an end.”

Skippy turned and ran out of the driveway. He ran all the way to Joy’s house. Joy met him in the front yard. A hose in Joy’s hand sprayed water on her geranium bed. Joy’s long feet were bare and her hair had new extensions. She leaned down and kissed Skippy’s cheek, and the first thing she said was, “Skips, are you wearing those platform shoes again?”

“What makes you say that?”

Joy wrinkled her nose, looked him up and down. “You seem taller.” She stood beside him and compared Skippy’s height to hers. “Yep,” she declared finally. “You’re growing, Skips.”

Skippy cursed and, pushing Joy aside, stormed into her house, raided the liquor cabinet, and locked the gin and himself in her bedroom. Joy heard the door slam and the lock snap into place.

At 10 p.m., Joy finally managed to convince Skippy through the barricades that under no circumstances would she spend the night on her own living room couch. Skippy unlocked the door. Once inside, Joy cleverly displayed her still-considerable charms and Skippy soon succumbed. Just for old time’s sake. Around midnight, loud voices in the foyer interrupted them. Joy lit a cigarette and said, “Amy’s got a new tattoo.”

“So?”

Joy drew on the cigarette, watched it burn. “It’s on her tush,” she murmured, but Skippy wasn’t listening. His bright eyes darted in the semidarkness, faster and faster, until Joy quipped, “Skips, you’re plotting again. I can tell.”

That night, Skippy Smathers hung himself from the chandelier in his bedroom.

On opening night, Mel the Diminutive Man played the lead in Standing Tall , played it deftly, with brilliance and flair. Critics praised Mel’s grace in the face of losing his friend, Mel’s courage in walking the Great White Way for Skippy Smathers. In the wink of an eye and at long last, Mel’s star skyrocketed.

He was in the backseat of a limo, coming home from the airport. He was alone because, besides the late Skippy Smathers, he didn’t have any friends. Not the kind you’d want to be seen with in public anyway, with all the Hollywood kleig lights on full blast. Mel was drinking the whole split by himself and basking in his celebrity when suddenly, for no reason at all, he thought of Skippy’s walking cane.

The house in God’s Chosen Neighborhood seemed inadequate, pathetic, really, no place for a meteoric star like Mel. At long last he would move to L.A. Maybe snap up that cool house he’d always coveted on Mulholland Drive. The orchids would love it.

The limo’s headlights washed the patio. A car was parked in the driveway. Mel paid off the limo service and walked up the drive. Joy Smathers greeted him.

Joy was lounging on the patio chaise, reading a newspaper. When she saw Mel, she looked up and smiled. “Mel, you’re home. I’ve been waiting for you.” Joy stood up, folded the newspaper, and tucked it neatly under her arm.

Mel stared.

Joy’s smile twitched. “Why, Mel, aren’t you glad to see me?”

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“I wanted you to know.”

“What? Know what?”

“I figured out how you whittled Skippy’s walking cane down little by little. To make him think he was growing. When all the time his cane was getting shorter. It fooled everyone. Even me. You figured that sooner or later, what with Skippy’s fragile psyche, it would drive him over the edge. Sooner or later Skippy would despair, maybe commit suicide. That was your plan, wasn’t it, Mel?”

“What are you…?”

As if suddenly inspired, Joy blurted, “Did you know that Captain Vancouver named Magnolia Bluff erroneously?”

Mel shook his head.

“Aren’t you curious why he did?”

“No.”

Ignoring him, Joy explained: “Captain Vancouver discovered this part of the world, you know. And he hated everything about it. Hated the rain and the fog and the Indians… I’ll bet he hated dwarfs too.”

“Make your point.”

“Because Captain Vancouver mistook the bluff’s madrona trees for magnolia trees.” Joy broke into a wide smile. “It all comes down to wood, doesn’t it, Mel?”

Mel placed a hand to his forehead.

“This might interest the media,” said Joy. “Or the gossip columnists. I mean, about these cherrywood shavings I found in your orchid plants. Oh, I almost forgot to mention…”

“Can it, Joy.”

Joy shuffled around, a tap dancer at heart, then froze. “To be frank, Mel, it mortifies me to catch you doing something so despicable.”

Sweat bathed Mel’s brow.

Joy said, “See, I took the rubber cup off the bottom of Skippy’s cane. And I saw. It’s locked up in a safe place now. I mean Skips’s cane. Or what’s left of it. See, I figured out what happened underneath that little rubber cup-”

Mel came at Joy, but swift Joy produced another talisman that drew him up short: the Seattle Times , tomorrow’s early edition. Joy had folded the front page to emphasize a small headline: Second Autopsy Reveals Star Dwarf Smathers Was Growing.

Skippy’s photograph accompanied the story.

Joy touched Mel’s sleeve. Lightly, to fix attention on what she was going to say. From her regular-sized heart.

“If only you’d been patient, Mel. If only you hadn’t whittled down his cane. See, I talked to Skippy’s doctor and figured it all out. You didn’t believe him, but something had gone wacky with his pituitary gland. It sometimes happens to a dwarf, you know. So the tightrope had already been greased.” Joy smiled ever so gently. “You didn’t need to push him.” Joy stretched to her full height, reached down, and plucked Mel’s house keys from his trembling hand.