Queen and bandit, p.5
Queen and Bandit, page 5
“These heathens will not leave this island!” he bellowed as Ares. “They must not reach their vessel!”
The gods shouted a battle cry and continued their pursuit. Evelyn caught up to one of the sailors and swung her foot out, knocking his leg out from under him. He fell hard enough that it made Gracie wince. She hoped the poor man was wearing pads under his costume. Evelyn pounced onto him and pulled a blade from her belt. She brought the weapon up over her head and then swept it down across his throat.
The sailors were almost out of sight behind a rock formation. One of them stopped and took cover, raising his rifle and firing toward Evelyn. Someone behind the camera shouted “BANG!” and Evelyn rocked her body as if she had been hit. She turned slowly toward the gunman and threw her knife. It fell short by about ten feet, but the sailor flopped back as if it had been a killing blow.
Sol shouted, “Cut! That was beautiful. Let’s run it again.”
The entire cast reset, everyone moved back to their original positions, and they did it all again. Gracie couldn’t imagine doing this sort of wash, rinse, repeat on every single section of the script. It would be like writing a paragraph, then deleting it to write it again from scratch. She shuddered at the thought even as Sol called for a third take, and then a fourth. By the time he was satisfied, every actor was panting and sweating from their repeated sprints across the sand. Gracie realized it actually looked like they had just been running for their lives.
Evelyn took a canteen from an assistant with a breathless ‘thanks,’ and tilted it back greedily. For a moment she was backlit by the sun, which glistened off the sweat on her skin and highlighted the muscles of her shoulders and upper arms. She looked golden and unreal and for a moment Gracie cursed the inability of a movie camera to capture the power she was seeing right now.
When Evelyn finished drinking, she swept an arm across her mouth and caught Gracie staring. “What did you think?”
“I think...”
Gracie glanced over at Sol where he had already huddled up with Joe, Barry, and the screenwriter. She looked back at Evelyn, the goddess in the flesh who was prepared to put her head on the chopping block to protect herself and others who might come after her.
“I think I have an article to write.”
Chapter Five
For once, Gracie was happy to see that Swain was still in his office when she got back. The door was open and she rapped on the wall as she leaned in.
“I need you to be here in an hour or two when I’m finished with the article.”
He looked at the clock. “Is this for the fluff piece? I don’t care about that. Just log it when you’re done and it’ll go to the printers with everything else.”
“You’re going to want to run your eyes over this one before it goes out, trust me.”
Swain raised an eyebrow. “You bring me a scoop, Simon?”
“Just stay here until I get it written.”
“I’ll be here.”
She went to her desk, checked her typewriter, and dropped the notepad next to the blotter. She’d practically written the entire article in her head already. All she needed to do was get it down on paper, fill in a few details, and it would be ready. She cracked her knuckles and threaded a sheet into the typewriter. She chewed her bottom lip for a moment as she debated how and where to begin. When she decided, she leaned forward and began writing.
At some point, Swain came out of his office and asked her if she’d ever stopped for lunch. She gave a non-answer and kept writing. When he passed by her desk again a half-hour later, he left a wrapped sandwich next to her pen jar.
“Thanks, boss,” she said, suddenly starving. She unwrapped it and started eating with one hand, the other lifting the paper so she could proofread what she’d written so far. When the sandwich was gone, she brushed the crumbs from her face and went right back to work. A fluff piece was supposed to be three hundred words, maybe five hundred at the outside, but this was going to be easily twice that. She didn’t care, and she didn’t mind convincing Swain it deserved more room.
True to his word, Swain was still at his desk when she finished. She took the page and carried it into his office, slapped it down in front of him, and settled herself in the chair across from him. His eyes widened when he saw the size of it, and then his brows knit together as he picked out certain words. He sat up straighter and put on his reading glasses.
“What is this?”
“Read it.”
Gracie folded her hands on her stomach and waited. She paid close attention to his expression and the emotions that crossed over his face. Confusion dominated, but there was also a touch of anger.
“This was supposed to be a fluff piece,” he said when he finished.
“Something else came up.”
He looked at her over the rims of his glasses. “You know we can’t print any of this. Not a word. We’ll be sued for libel.”
“Only if it’s a lie. Which the accused have to prove, which would mean calling attention to the accusations. They won’t sue. She didn’t make it up, Bill. I saw the behavior with my own eyes. These guys were pulling this crap right in front of a reporter, so I can only imagine what they get up to behind closed doors. Now, I could go back to my desk and write a neat little profile about the movie they’re filming, which is probably going to be a disaster, or we can print this and get some people talking.”
Swain worked his lips for a moment as he skimmed the article again.
“You have her approval for all of this? Even if we don’t get sued, it’s going to come down on her pretty damn hard.”
“She’s on board. With two caveats.”
“Of course. What is she asking for?”
Gracie said, “One week after this runs, we do a full profile of her. You’re right about her, Bill, she’s going to be a huge star.”
“Then it’s idiotic of her to do this!”
“It’s why she’s the only one who can. She’s too good to be shut out forever, no matter what dirty laundry she decides to air. But a big part of the recovery will be making sure people see her as more than a troublemaker. We can help her make that happen. I’ll volunteer to write the profile myself.”
“And the other?”
“To write the profile, I have to get to know her. We have to spend a lot of time together. And it will help if she’s not in town for the bulk of the firestorm. I want to get her away from the line of fire, conduct an in-depth interview where no one can find her to yell at her or try to make her pay for telling everyone’s secrets.”
Swain took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You get her out of town. Which I assume means you want a stipend, since this will be for a story.”
“A hundred oughta do it.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Is this revenge for taking you off the Atwood story?”
“Atwater,” Gracie corrected. “And no. Unless that would help sell you on the idea, in which case, sure.”
“Teach me to do a favor for you,” he muttered. “No one would’ve read that political nonsense, you know.”
He looked at the article one more time, shook his head, and then opened one of his desk drawers. He dropped a pad down, took out a pen, and quickly scribbled down a receipt. He passed it across the desk to her. While she signed her name - Simon Grace - he turned his chair around and opened a small safe on the floor next to the filing cabinet. He took out five twenties and placed them on the desk, then took the receipt from her.
“If this thing catches fire in a bad way, we’re issuing an apology and a retraction. No profile, and the name Evelyn Wade will never again appear in this publication. We serve the people of Los Angeles. Not one single movie star with a bone to pick. I told you, Hollywood is the real politics in this town, and I’m not getting on their bad side. If that means we have to pick a side, we’re going to pick the one that keeps us in business. Am I understood?”
“Completely, Mr. Swain.”
“Then get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”
She stood up and started to leave, then turned back. “No major edits.”
He waved her away. “Fine. Fine, whatever, get out.”
She saluted him and left the office. She’d had a knot of anxiety and worry tightening between her shoulder blades ever since they came up with the idea. Now that it was written and out of her hands, she felt that tension starting to relax. She went to her desk and dropped into the chair so she could take a second before she left the office and figured out what she needed to do next. Probably go home and pack, and make sure the car was ready for what she was going to ask of it. They could probably make it to Chicago in three days without pushing the engine too hard. Do whatever mysterious task Evelyn had in mind there, then three days back. A solid week, during which she was supposed to be writing a profile that could be thrown into the next edition.
“Busy week,” she murmured.
She pushed her hands through her hair and stood up. The article was in Swain’s hands. She could either trust him to publish it unchanged or go crazy worrying about what edits he might make.
She opted for sanity and went home. She would pack a bag, get to bed early, and hope that she still had a job when she got back in a week.
***
Evelyn ached all over when Sol finally released the cast and crew. It wasn’t immediately clear if he was punishing her for screwing up his schedule, but it seemed like she was suddenly in every scene. She fought, she ran, she was forced to cram learning her lines for new scenes in between shooting others. By the time someone finally convinced Sol that they’d lost too much light to continue shooting, everything in her ached.
She had just enough energy to get to her trailer and change out of her costume, back into her slacks and a normal button-down shirt. Her driver was waiting by the car and she poured herself into the backseat so she could catnap for the drive home. She pillowed her head on her hands, eyes open just enough to watch the streetlights sweeping by the windows.
The driver didn’t try to make conversation. He never did. He seemed to be the only person in Los Angeles who didn’t care about the Hollywood part of it beyond being paid to transport people from one place to another. That was why she always requested him above everyone else at the agency.
She thanked the driver when they arrived at her house. She lived in Silver Lake in an ugly little house that she’d spent too much on. She only bought it because someone who expected to be a star someday was expected to live in a place like this. There was a gate, made less imposing by a veil of flowers that tangled in its iron bars. The house was blue, which she liked, and it had a lot of windows, which meant she could either see her neighbor’s roof or a lovely wall of privacy shrubs depending on what room she was in. But it was home, and it was conveniently located to the studios, and it served the purpose of impressing her guests when she deigned to invite anyone over.
But in a larger sense, it wasn’t home. She felt like a guest on her good days, an intruder on the bad ones, and could never quite get comfortable enough in the house.
She went upstairs and stripped off her clothes as she went. There was still sand in her hair, caught in the folds of her clothes, baked into her skin. She turned on the cold water and stepped into the stall, letting the spray hit the top of her head before she leaned back so it could pelt her face. She was washing off not only the makeup, not only the whole day out in the desert, but the entire personality of Evelyn Wade. The glamorous star who posed whenever she stood still, who always had to represent the studio in the best light, who could never let her fans see her angry or tired.
When she felt like a human being again, she toweled off and walked naked and shivering into her bedroom. The only light she turned on was the lamp next to the bed. She dressed in a nightgown from her closet, a floor-length sheath with lace at the bodice and cap sleeves.
A less than reputable magazine had once theorized about what female celebrities wore to bed, and she’d made the list: “A birthday suit.” The readers of that drivel would have been very, very disappointed by the matronly reality, but it made her feel cozy. She couldn’t imagine anyone actually slept in the nude. It was unnatural and it would be far too cold.
She stretched out on the bed on top of the blankets, one hand on her stomach and the other at her side. Her head rolled to the side and she looked at the darkness of her closet, the barely-visible clothes hanging within. She really should be packing a bag. If “Simon Grace” was true to her word, the article would already be written and ready for printing. Hell, it might already be at the printers ready to go out. She could barely believe the things she’d said. So many stories she’d sworn to never say out loud.
She had been warned her almost immediately. On the last day of filming her first movie the female lead, Betty Childress, had taken her aside. “I’ve been watching you, kid, and I know where you’re heading. If you really want to get there, you’ll have to put up with some shit. Understand? It’s call paying your dues. It’s something we’ve all done. It’s just part of the dance. Don’t let nobody hurt you, and don’t do anything without getting something in return. Watch out for yourself, ‘cause no one else is gonna do it for you. Hear me?”
She’d said yes, and she’d followed that advice to the letter for the rest of her career. So why spill the beans now? Was it just because Gracie had looked so innocent? Those big doe eyes hiding behind her glasses, that suit, the gangly arms. She was a fairly plain woman, but a handsome man, and the elements of her male costume suited her very well. Evelyn had a feeling she would’ve looked odd in makeup or putting her hair up in curls. But the dress shirt, the slacks, the suspenders... yes, that was a style that fit.
If Evelyn had any regrets about hitching her wagon to this idea, it was that she hadn’t read anything Gracie had written. Who knew if she really had the guts or the oomph or whatever was necessary to make a story like this really catch fire? What if Evelyn had just lit the fuse on a dud? It was enough to unsettle her stomach, thinking that she may have only succeeded in torching her own career.
And then there was her hiding place.
Cheese and crackers, what on Earth had she been thinking when she said Chicago? That was more than just a can of worms. That was a whole smashed terrarium with a few ant farms thrown in for good measure. The storm awaiting her back home was almost scarier than what she would be facing in Los Angeles if she stayed to ride out the backlash.
She sat up and put her feet back on the floor. She went to the bathroom, retrieved the Pepto, and took a swig with as much desperation as an alcoholic with a bottle of whiskey. She went into her bedroom and looked between the bed and the closet.
She knew there was no point in trying to go back to sleep. She turned on the overhead light, squinted in its brightness, and took out her medium-sized suitcase. She’d forgotten to ask what kind of car Gracie drove, so she had no idea how much room there would be for their luggage. But a week of travel, living out of a vehicle and motel rooms, required certain amenities she couldn’t be without.
She put the suitcase on her bed and set about filling it.
Chapter Six
Their first argument was the suitcases.
Gracie woke up minutes before the sun crested the hills, showered and dressed in time to greet the first glow of morning. She wet a comb and ran it through her hair then headed out to her car. She had maps in the glove compartment which she’d used to draw out what she assumed would be the best route. South was quicker and wouldn’t take them through the Rockies, but it was a lot of desert. She didn’t know how much Evelyn planned to drive, if at all, so she wanted to be sure there was enough scenery to keep her awake.
It was just after six thirty but, though the Mercury was usually delivered around that time, she didn’t see it in any of her neighbors’ driveways. Maybe there was a delay. Maybe Swain had decided to cancel that morning’s edition. There were a thousand maybes, but she couldn’t worry about them at the moment. She was just going to be glad no one had read the story yet. With any luck, it wouldn’t be seen until they were already on the road.
She drove to Evelyn’s address in Silver Lake. The gate was open so she was able to pull up into the driveway and park in front of the entrance. The house was imposing, to say the least, and Gracie felt like she should have some kind of permit to justify her presence.
She had just gotten out of the car when the front door opened and Evelyn swept out, pausing to turn and lift two clamshell suitcases from the entry hall. She was dressed in a sleeveless button-down shirt and high-waisted white slacks. She had a neckerchief tied at her throat, and her hair was pinned back in what Gracie could only describe as a ‘normal’ style. There was very little flash about her outfit, which Gracie appreciated.
“You’re right on time!” Evelyn said from the porch. “Help me with these, would you?”
Gracie stayed where she was. “Where do you expect we’re going to put those things?”
Evelyn straightened and looked at the car. “Trunk.”
“We might be able to fit one of those monstrosities in there,” Gracie said. “But I have my own suitcase that has to go somewhere.”
“Then we can put it in the backseat.”
Gracie gestured at the suitcase. “That thing standing up in the backseat will block half the window. You can take one.”
Evelyn said, “I can’t just take one.”
“Your choices are one bag or not going at all.” She held her hands out to either side. “It’s up to you, but you better decide soon. The Mercury is going to be dropping in driveways all over town any minute now.”
Evelyn twisted her lips and she looked past Gracie at the open gate as if she could see a fleet of delivery trucks idling at the corner. Finally, with a stamp of her foot, she relaxed her shoulders and threw her hands up.
“Fine. But I’m going to need a second.”
