Soap Opera Slaughters (8 page)

“Gene?” She uttered my name so softly I wasn’t certain whether it was the sound or the thought I heard.

“Yes?”
I also spoke in a low voice.

“Have you been able to sleep?”

“No.”

“I can’t, either.”

Silence. Neither of us moved. I gazed longingly at her lithe body silhouetted in the suffused aura of the lamplight Her breasts rose and fell in the same rhythm as my pulse. The room was a lagoon of darkness and pale flame. Its midnight waters lapped us both.

When Lara finally drew near, I rose and rested my hands gently on her shoulders, smelling the delicate fragrance of her smooth skin.

“We’re practically strangers,” she whispered. “We’re acting out a fantasy, aren’t we?”

“I think so.”

“I’ve played too many scenes like this, Gene. The characters always suffer. I don’t want to get hurt.”

“I could promise you it’ll never happen, but we both know that’s not how love works.”

“Is this love?”

“It feels similar.”

“It usually does at first.”

Afraid to continue, unable to stop, we held each other for a long while, but when my lips touched hers, Lara responded at first, then abruptly pulled away.

“You’re kissing Hilary, not me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? Be honest.”

“I don’t think so. I can’t be positive.”

“Neither can I.” She stood inches and miles away. “God, Gene, this is so complicated.”

‘It doesn’t have to be.”

“Show me how to make it simple.”

“Just make up your mind whether you want to stay with me or not”

“That’s the trouble, love. I’m not sure.”

I helped her decide.

J
UST BEFORE DAWN, LARA
fell asleep in my arms. Gazing down on her exquisite features, so like and unlike Hilary’s, I tried to believe in the incredible fact that I was holding the very woman I’d watched month after adoring month on my TV screen. But it was a marvel beyond my comprehension, perhaps because the creature whose head I cradled was so vastly different from Roberta Jennett, the fiercely independent woman she played on “Riverday.”

As the hush of twilight muffled the city, I began to doze, too. Bits of phrases, scraps of logic and music lulled me as the faint flush of morning crept through the thin curtains and warmed my closed eyelids.

The alarm was as shrill and startling as if someone had splashed ice water on me, cubes and all. I bolted straight up as Lara reached over and shut off the clock.

Every new romance has tricky moments when the bond so recently formed either holds fast or begins to fray. We were facing our first crucial test: waking up together, feeling oddly shy and vulnerable. There was such an equivocal expression on Lara’s that I suddenly was afraid to say or do anything, lest it inadvertently hurt her. She tried to smile, but her eyes glistened, and she pulled the covers to her chin with an after-the-fact modesty that was both poignant and endearing.

No longer tongue-tied, I put my hand reassuringly over hers. “Lainie?”

“What?” she whispered.

“Remember what I said last night? About love?”

Lara nodded, eyes wide with uncertainty. “The similarity’s growing,” I said. First she smiled.

We had to hurry. I did what I could to make myself presentable, but without fresh clothing or toiletry articles, it was a haphazard job. Lara loaned me the razor she used on her legs, and I managed to shave without cutting myself more than one or two thousand times, but at least there was styptic.

The studio limo picked us up in front of the building Lara lived in. The driver followed West End all the way down to Fifty-third. It was so early, there was hardly any traffic. We were the only passengers, a minor mercy, considering that my metabolism wasn’t yet aware I was supposed to be awake.

The car pulled up in front of an ugly gray concrete monolith on the north side of Fifty-third The Hudson glinting in the distance was the only sparkling sight in an otherwise dingy neighborhood. Ramshackle hovels squeezing together on the south side of the street were crowded by greasy warehouses and garages. I wouldn’t walk there at night, and even broad daylight didn’t much appeal to me.

As we disembarked, a fat young man with a camera slung round his neck hurried over to us and got Lara’s permission to photograph the two of us together. I was stunned that even the most rabid fan would hang around that forbidding block so early in the morning. Lara signed his autograph book, then handed it to me with a wink. I scribbled in it, too, figuring, what the hell, he probably had no idea who Tom Mason was.

Lara steered me to the front entrance of the squat network building. It resembled a stone fortress or prison: grim, bleak, few windows and all of them streaked with grime.

“Once,” Lara told me, “this was the biggest production facility in the East. Some of the ‘golden age’ dramatic series were broadcast from here. Then
TV
went west, and this became the biggest white elephant in the East—at least until
WBS
bought it”

“And now the only things they use this gothic horror for are ‘Riverday’ and the news?”

“And for storage and general administrative space. Maybe as a partial tax writeoff, I don’t know—though the revenues they get for ‘Riverday’ are astronomical.”

I opened the lobby door. We entered a commonplace reception area devoid of any furniture other than one long bench and a desk behind which sat a burly, red-faced security guard in his late twenties. Lara signed a list he pushed across his desk, and motioned for me to do the same.

Taking back the list, the guard asked me for identification. As I pulled out my driver’s license, he flipped through a separate sheaf of papers but was unable to find my name anywhere.

I explained that I’d been invited by Florence McKinley. He shook his head and shrugged apologetically.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got nothing here to clear you.” His voice was as musical as someone gargling with gravel.

Lara stepped forward. “Hasn’t Ms. McKinley arrived yet?” He said no. “Never mind, this man’s with me, you can pass him in on my say-so.”

“Sorry, ma’am, I can’t. Gotta be okayed by
WBS
or Mr. Ames.”

“Since when?”

“Since that turkey jumped off the roof.”

Lara reddened, but I stopped her from arguing. “You go in,” I suggested, “I’ll wait out here for Florence to arrive.”

“That could be a while yet, Gene, she’s not on till the fourth scene. All right, look—you stay here, I’ll run on up and get Micki to clear you.” Without explaining who Micki was, Lara exited through an iron door to the left of and behind the security desk.

The guard mopped his florid. “Guess I’ll catch hell for not taking her word you’re okay,” he said morosely, “but they already fired another guard for Saturday, and he only had one year left to retirement.”

“I’m not mad,” I said. “I understand the position you’re in, I used to be a security guard myself once.”

“Yeah? Where’d you work? What kinda place?”

“A bank.”

“You had it easy,” he rasped wryly. “Money at least stays put. It don’t rob itself.”

Micki turned out to be Marianne Lipscomb, assistant to the producer of “Riverday.” A tiny brunette with hair parted in the middle and swept over her ears in two midnight wings. Her small oval had large brown eyes and a nose that overbalanced everything else. Likewise, her trim frame looked lopsided because her shoulders were too broad. But she had so much poise she looked like she knew exactly what she was going to be doing for the next thirteen weeks, minute by minute, and maybe she did.

Emerging from the same door Lara left by, Micki Lipscomb introduced herself to me, then rounded on the guard. He started to argue with her, but gave up after a few acrimonious exchanges, during which she impressed on him that her authorization was synonymous with that of Joseph T. Ames himself.

I was finally permitted behind the metal door. Ames’ assistant led me through a maze of corridors studded with so many unnumbered doors I felt like the lost child in George Macdonald’s fairy tale about goblins. Heeltapping briskly in front, Micki took me up two flights of steep stairs to the third-floor offices of Colson-Ames.

I entered a suite of cramped cubicles opening off a moderately large central space filled with phones, desks, chairs, filing cabinets and a barrage of color TV sets.

“Wait here,” she instructed me. “I can’t let you into the studio without direct clearance from Mr. Ames, and I can assure you he won’t give it to you unless Florence tells him to.” She took a deep breath. “Did she ask you here because of what happened to Ed Niven?”

“Yes. Did you know him very well?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You might put it that way.”

I regarded her curiously.
Another candidate?
“I heard he was dating Ms. McKinley.”

“What a quaint phrase,” she said ironically. “I didn’t know that people still ‘date’ nowadays.”

“Some of us do. I also understand Mr. Niven used to be involved with Joanne Carpenter.”

“If you’re going to dredge up ancient history, you’re going to need a score card. Ed ‘dated’ anything with two sets of curves. I
think
he drew the line at nymphets.” Her lips seemed unsure whether to frown or sneer. Just then the phone rescued her from deciding.

She held the receiver to her ear for a few seconds, then hung up and strode over to her desk. That was Mr. Ames. Emergency meeting on set. You’ll have to keep yourself company for a while.” Marianne Lipscomb grabbed a clipboard and pencil and hurried out.

Some detectives I’ve met regard an empty office as an invitation to poke around in drawers and files, but since I had no idea what I might be looking for, I reserved the temptation for a time when it might be worth the risk. I busied myself, instead, reading the cartoons, memos and interoffice dictums pinned to the bulletin board. One of the latter was an emphatic note from Joseph T. Ames warning cast members that costumes “are the property of Colson-Ames and
MUST BE RETURNED TO WARDROBE IMMEDIATELY
after taping is done,
SOONER
if possible so they can be cleaned
ASAP
. Costumes will
NOT
be loaned for personal use under any circumstances, and may only be worn in public at publicity functions approved by
ME
!” Next to this directive someone had pinned up a caricature of an elderly white-haired man, presumably a likeness of Ames, sneaking out of the wardrobe department wearing an evening gown and huge earrings.

The bulletin board also held several yellowing lists of union rules and restrictions, a few fan letters, and a note on
NBC
stationery challenging the “Riverday” company to a softball match with the cast and crew of “Another World.” There was also a scene-by-scene breakdown of the day’s taping run with space on it for the actors to initial upon arrival. The place beside Florence’s name was blank, as was Joanne Carpenter’s, but neither were involved in the first scenes on the schedule.

Most of the memos were soiled and wrinkled with age, but one notice on the middle of the board was new. As I read it, I started to understand what the lobby officer meant about money being easier to guard than the stars he was responsible for.

WBS
Memorandum 8/17

To:
ALL PEOPLE IN THE 53
^rd
STREET FACILITY

From:
PAUL C. BAUER, MANAGER, SECURITY

BECAUSE OF THIS WEEKEND’S TRAGEDY, NO ONE WILL BE PERMITTED IN THE FACILITY AFTER HOURS WITHOUT PERMISSION FROM THE NETWORK OR AN AUTHORIZED PRODUCER. PLEASE DO NOT TRY TO “BEAT THE SYSTEM.” WHENEVER YOU DO, YOU ENDANGER LIVES AND PROPERTIES. I HAVE REPEATEDLY ASKED ACTORS AND TECHNICIANS TO OBSERVE THE FOLLOWING SAFETY MEASURES:

Use the front doors to enter and exit. The fire doors are for emergencies only and
MUST NOT BE PROPPED OPEN WHEN YOU GO OUT TO LUNCH.

Lock your dressing room at all times, even if you are inside, and especially when changing clothes.
NEVER LEAVE YOUR ROOM KEYS IN THE DOOR!

If you see someone suspicious on the premises, avoid confronting the transgressor. Report his or her presence
IMMEDIATELY
to Security.

Thank you.

The puzzle in my mind now had another piece that fit. There was no record of Niven signing in at the front desk Saturday, so he must have entered through a fire door. Someone in the building may have left one open for him deliberately, or it may have been ajar by pure chance, but it seemed the only way Niven could have gotten in.

And whoever pushed him must have left the same way.

Along one wall of the production office there were several TV sets arranged in two banks, one above the other. Some were tuned to the on-air programs being broadcast by
WBS
and its three rival networks. Others were studio monitors that showed familiar “Riverday” sets, some of the same ones that the taping breakdown on the bulletin board specified for use that day. On one screen I saw the Jennett family’s living room, on another the hospital room where various characters had, from time to time, recuperated under the affectionate eye of Dr. Matt Jennett. Another monitor was of the supper club owned by Martha and her husband, Leo Jennett (Florence McKinley and Donald Bannister, respectively).

As I watched, technicians wandered in and out of scenes, checking props, adjusting furniture, dusting bureau and desk tops. A chubby young woman in jeans fussed with the hospital bed, arranged props on the adjacent nightstand—water tray, a box of tissues, a medicine bottle and dosage cup about the size and shape of a shot glass. A flurry of movement in the Jennett living room caught my eye. I focused on that monitor.

The efficient Ms. Lipscomb appeared on the screen, still holding her clipboard. She was saying something to a tall, white-haired man in his sixties with a dour hangdog expression drawing down the corners of his mouth as if he were smelling a rotten egg. He wore no tie, but had on a gray flannel suit he must have been roasting in. Clearly the original of the man in drag caricatured on the bulletin board, I assumed (correctly as it turned out) that he was Joseph T. Ames, the producer.