Deadly Dues Read online

  DEADLY

  DUES

  LINDA

  KUPECEK

  To actors, artists and good times.

  A Cinematographer’s Dream

  “Definitely dead,” said Geoff.

  Even I could figure that out. Five of us stood in a wide-eyed group around Stan’s desk, and not one of us offered a heart-rending sob or tender tear at the sight before us. Gretchen, Geoff, Pete and Bent looked just the way I felt: as if I had been presented with a gift of generosity so obscenely overdone that I would live with the guilt forever.

  I didn’t want anybody I knew to turn up dead, no matter how evil they were. But sadly, and to my immense shame, seeing Stan Pope face down on his desk with a letter opener slanted into his back fell more into the category of riotous celebration than wailing mourning.

  Behind us, the streetlights filtered through the blinds of the union office, casting shadowed lines over the centre of the room. Horizontal lines are so unflattering to actors, and none of us looked attractive at this moment. We were a pale and pasty bunch, unaccustomed as we were to finding dead bodies.

  Classic film noir, a cinematographer’s dream, and no camera in sight. On his hand, splayed across the desk in uncharacteristic stillness, Stan’s gold pinky ring glimmered, flashing gently as the orange neon lights from Rae’s Bar and Grill across the street beckoned unsuspecting customers. Stan had implemented many gestures in his daily life, especially the charming one-fingered one. It was strange to see his hand unmoving and vulnerable.

  I had always liked Stan’s desk, a deep oak vintage piece that didn’t suit Stan’s shallow personality. The elegantly curved letter opener, inscribed with the HAMS logo and embedded in his back, created an image that was really quite beautiful, if one could divorce oneself from the reality and consider the aesthetic.

  As the office manager of our union, the Honourable Association of Minstrels and Singers, known as HAMS, Stan had managed to ruin or damage each of our careers, with intimidation, harassment and plain old lying.

  Geoff, at the age of forty, with classic movie star looks, a shock of prematurely white hair, and a credit list that could make a casting director faint (if he or she hadn’t already fainted from his lethally flirtatious ways), now found his once thriving career stalled. This was thanks to the frivolous lawsuit Stan had launched against him. If Geoff was not too broken up over his own pronouncement, who could be surprised?

  Gretchen had fought off Stan’s advances with her award statuette at a party last year, and now found that her engagements were always sidelined by minor contractual problems. Who could blame her for looking more slightly surprised than devastated?

  Pete, whose marriage of twenty years had ended after Stan had cornered his wife Sally at a party, and after whispered innuendo of an affair between Pete and Sherilyn, Stan’s intellectually insignificant but physically impressive other, looked almost happy. Were any of us going to say boo?

  Bent’s career as an acting coach had been cut short by poison pen e-mails emanating from Stan’s computer (although this was never proven). It was understandable that he didn’t look particularly bereaved as he gazed at Stan’s lifeless body. Bent was black, brainy and beautiful in a strangely androgynous way. At moments, he seemed all testosterone, with a weird, repressed sexiness. He was a terrible actor but a wonderful coach. And now he was working part-time as a mechanic to make up for the sudden drop of income in his chosen field, thanks to Stan.

  And what about me? Given that my long-standing, exclusive and wonderfully lucrative contract as the spokesperson for Bow Wow Dog Food had come to a sudden end once Stan planted himself between my agent Mitzi and the producers, I was revolted by the image before me, but not heartbroken by the result. My royalties had been MIA for over two years. The lawyers I hired had depleted my bank account, but had never recovered my money. Working at McDonald’s is great for an eighteen-year-old, but maybe not a satisfying career choice for a forty-something actress with two degrees and a sheepdog who eats the furniture if he is not fed gargantuan amounts of food on an unreasonably regular basis.

  I am Lulu Malone. Well, I was Lulu Malone. Lu, stop that. You are still Lulu Malone. I am five feet five inches, and more curvy than anorexic (not that there is anything wrong with that). Despite my chronological years, I still get rude, complimentary comments from men on the street about certain parts of my anatomy. When I was younger, I was enraged by the fact that I lived in a sexist society. As I grow older, I notice that I feel slightly more benevolent toward the socially challenged men who feel the need to comment on a woman’s body. Just the other day, as I paid (in quarters, dimes and nickels) for an overpriced vitamin-enhanced water at a convenience store, the twenty-ish cashier squinted his face into a huge smile, gave me a thumbs-up and roared, “Looking good, lady.”

  Reviews have referred to my “dancing, incandescent eyes.” We won’t talk about the reviews, for the same film, that noted that my eyes looked as if I were on speed or had been wearing the same pair of contact lenses for too long.

  Luckily, no matter what I do, I am adorable. I have mutated through at least two dozen hair styles, but I am still adorable. I guess it is the dimples. Over the years, I have played the adorable heroine, the adorable best friend of the heroine, the adorable neighbour, the adorable head nurse, even the adorable crack addict, and finally, in a low-budget film I won’t name, the adorable serial killer.

  I am a classically trained actress. So it is only logical that I am best known as the adorable, curly-haired star of the most successful dog food commercials in the history of broadcasting. In my youth, I did a decent Portia. I paid my dues in hundreds of forgettable docudramas and educational films. I eventually starred in a television series with the unlikely title of Darling, Detective.

  I was Dora Darling, the retro private eye who wore black leather coats and black lace garter belts, and, between extremely clever one-liners, leapt about in karate poses. It was silly, but it was also entertaining, and more respectful of women than a lot of other junk on TV at the time. At least Dora was smart. Then that ended, and I moved from big cheese to second banana. I continued to work, sporadically, in all the adorable (and not so adorable) permutations of my acting range. A wonderful resumé. And I am still known as Lulu Malone, of Bow Wow Dog Food fame.

  I sometimes mused, what if I had changed my name to something more theatrical and dignified, like Clytemnestra? Would that have helped? Would that have suddenly made Stan discover where my royalties were hiding? Would the press and my fans have stormed the HAMS office, demanding justice for Lulu/Clytemnestra? Would Stan have been shamed and intimidated into doing the right thing?

  Oh yes, Stan. Stan, on his desk. Dead. And we were standing around, holding our collective breath, as if we were waiting for the stills photographer to snap us.

  The silence we shared changed from stunned shock to prickling anxiety. I suspect we were all considering the repercussions of our presence in the office at this extremely inconvenient moment. We were all major victims of Stan’s, and now we were standing over his dead body at nine in the evening. He had called each of us, suggesting a meeting, supposedly to address our differences. These differences were considerable, and it was surprising that Stan had asked to see us. Our correspondence in the past months had been limited to threatening, accusatory e-mails and equally unpleasant rebuttals, from both sides.

  Our union was a vital part of our existence as professionals. We had grown to count on the support and expertise of the hardworking staff, who over the years had improved conditions, fought for our overtime and scrutinized our contracts. I blessed the union whenever I received a royalty cheque. The combination of Stan, Katrina, Lorraine and the assistants was like a phalanx of protection against tricksters and crooks.
Katrina, the long-time office manager, had an unfortunate habit of taking frequent maternity leaves, at which point Stan would take over her duties.

  When Stan began to interfere with our careers, we complained mightily. As a group, we had sent a letter of protest about Stan to the HAMS head office. We should have known better. Wild accusations, even if they are based on fact, accomplish little. In hindsight, we should have bided our time and taken the proper route of protocol, with a good dose of legal advice along the way. We should have tried for mediation.

  But we were incensed by what we perceived as repression of and discrimination against any performer who didn’t kowtow to Stan and Sherilyn. We hadn’t thought about what this would do to our careers. Despite our years in the business, nobody believed us. Or if they did, they declined to comment. We were too old, too experienced, to be afraid to speak up. And we paid the price. After years of a mutually respectful and beneficial relationship with our union, we felt betrayed.

  Casting directors and producers quickly discovered that it was wise to omit our names from any production list. We had paid our dues, in more ways than one, and now we were disposable.

  Somebody thought Stan was disposable, too.

  We avoided looking at each other. It wasn’t pleasant looking at what was left of Stan either. We were aggrieved, but not ghoulish. We were sensitive. Artists. Not murderers.

  We had convened in the dark and depressing parking garage, then had crowded into the ancient elevator, complaining with the lurches from floor to floor until we finally had reached the fifth, disentangled ourselves, walked into the HAMS office and found Stan stretched across his desk, his bald head gleaming rather beautifully in the dim light. He was wearing a dark blue cashmere sweater, grey slacks and expensive, glossy shoes. Around the blade of the letter opener, his sweater was rumpled and stained dark with blood. The blood had oozed down his neck to the desk.

  Here we were. He was nice and dead. And we were nice and alive— and happy about it. Yow.

  “We should call the police,” said Geoff.

  That statement hung in the air for about five seconds. Then, without a word, we backtracked out of the office, turned off the light and closed the door. Pete, who has played a zillion police detectives in a zillion TV movies, swiftly wiped off the light switch and the door handles with his jacket sleeve as we left. Life experience is great. Film and television experience runs a close second.

  We paused, looked at the gaping elevator, then nearly trampled each other heading for the stairs. We hit the fire door. Pete paused to wipe the handles. Then we stampeded down the stairs (too bad about Gretchen’s elbow in Geoff’s groin in our haste) and burst through the door into the deserted parking garage.

  “Damn you, Gretchen,” yelped Geoff.

  “It was an accident,” said Gretchen plaintively. Gretchen is tall, blonde and model-thin, with a high forehead and pale, delicate skin. She looks like a beautiful, elegant bird. Every part of her lovely body is pointed. Especially her elbows.

  “Could you guys stop,” said Pete furiously. “This is not the time.” I agreed with Pete. We were milling around in a dimly lit parking garage with a dead body five floors above us.

  Not all of us were milling around. Bent had already sprinted to his twenty-year-old battered Volkswagen van, and started the engine. The sound was, as always, like a demented tractor in heat, and we all cringed. Why is it that the skinniest guys always drive the biggest beaters? Bent was educated and dressed respectably, but for as long as I had known him, had driven embarrassing wrecks. Now in his late thirties (although it was hard to tell, as he tended toward an intriguing, ageless look), he had a host of degrees, which were wasted on his current non-career. His eyes were perpetually wide with moral outrage.

  We leapt back as the van veered towards us, the loose left fender dangling dangerously close. Bent rolled down the window and hissed, “Murphy’s! Now!” then roared up the ramp to the exit.

  We doubled over, choking and hacking in the fumes that he left behind like a trail of sulphur. We were used to it. After we finished coughing, we scrambled to our own cars. Geoff could walk upright now and jumped into his BMW. Pete ran to his SUV. Gretchen and I piled into my Sunfire.

  I scrabbled with my keys as Gretchen slammed her door.

  “Lu! Speed it up!” she panted.

  I turned the key. The engine started immediately. And it then stalled.

  Geoff had already roared past us. Pete followed, blowing fumes. Their tail lights disappeared up the exit ramp. That left us in the only real live car in the parking garage. There weren’t even any druggies hanging around at this hour. The security cameras had given up the good fight months ago, and had never been replaced. We were alone and unobserved, which would be a good thing, in our present circumstances. But then maybe not such a good thing if a gang of bikers suddenly appeared.

  We saw the lights of another car coming down the entrance ramp.

  “Start the damned car,” she shouted in her trademark whisper.

  She was wearing her usual black designer silk jacket and pants, with a black T-shirt and black shoes. She had money. You’d never know it from her reluctance to pick up the tab in the bar. Stan might have ruined her career, but her finances seemed intact. Then I thought of my own finances and I stamped my foot down on the accelerator.

  The engine started. I backed up in roughly the shape of a pretzel and we nipped around the corner of the parking garage just before the other car entered the lower level.

  “Not so fast,” hissed Gretchen. “You’ll look suspicious.”

  “Gretchen, do you want to walk?” I said through gritted teeth. “Because I can let you out right now.”

  She pressed her lips together in the little point that most men seemed to find irresistible and just made me want to give her a dog biscuit.

  Nevertheless, I slowed down and drove up the exit ramp at a moderate pace, grateful that parking in the grim underground lot was free in the evening. The booth was devoid of human presence, empty and sort of sad, and we escaped into the crisp fall air.

  We pulled onto Second Avenue, and I breathed a sigh of relief. At this time of night, the only cars on Second belonged to workaholics, finally heading home after hours of number crunching, or the occasional couple heading to one of the cluster of bistros and ethnic restaurants in the stretch of crazy-quilt blocks.

  I rolled down my window and inhaled, grateful for the cool air, and the scent of leaves, exhaust fumes and the grilled duck from Henry’s Hot Spot.

  The city is growing faster than its streets. The panhandlers sleep under the glossy towers. One block downtown consists of high-end restaurants. One block over, where restoration hasn’t happened yet, drug dealers slide around in the shadows. Visiting conventioneers sometimes wander in the wrong direction from their four-star hotels and end up getting the fright of their life, running screaming back to the doorman who forgot to tell them to turn right, not left. Every time a section is demolished to make room for growth and gold-plated condos, more people are out on the street, with nowhere to live and no money to find a place to live, if there were any.

  There are more ethnic markets now, and fewer farmers selling fresh vegetables from their trucks in the summer. The money flashes from next year’s cars, this year’s shoes, the leather jackets and politically incorrect fur that are worn year-round, and the mirrored windows surrounding the steel and glass office buildings. By next year, the money will have disappeared, with staid older-model sedans replacing the flashy sports models. And then the cycle will start over. The only constants are the pursuit of glamour and the homeless living under the shadow of the moneyed towers.

  I turned left, pausing briefly to give a guy with a cartful of bottles in black garbage bags the right of way, and, after he sent me a salute of thanks (or was that the finger?), headed toward Murphy’s, the actors’ hangout.

  My Sunfire thumped along the potholes of Ford Street, not yet on the city’s list for improvements.
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  I was sure I was calm, although my hands left wet spots on the steering wheel. I waited for Gretchen to say something.

  “Oh damn,” she said mildly, looking down at her black patent stilettos. “I just had new heels put on these. Look at them now, after those cement stairs. We should have taken the elevator.”

  Awfully Innocent

  We have been going to Murphy’s since it opened, too many years ago. Now, like each of us, it has lost some of its lustre, but still has its offbeat charm. The rounded leather booths have darkened from their original red to a deep burgundy, the food is mostly basic burger and fries, and the washrooms generally are to be attempted only in moments of extreme desperation.

  On the upside, the booths are soft and comfortable, and every now and again Murphy hires a baby chef straight out of culinary school, who sneaks a few light and healthy items onto the menu, served with elegant swirls of radishes and kale. Then, a few months later, the same novice chef is lured away to a better establishment, and Murphy starts over with a new king or queen in the kitchen. Sometimes Murphy himself, all two hundred hairy pounds of him, works as a short-order cook between chefs, and we are careful to order only drinks in those instances. The one exception is his fries, which he magically turns into rosy pencil crisps with meltingly fatty insides.

  The lighting is dim enough to disguise most of Murphy’s sins in decor. The music, surprisingly, is usually Billie Holiday or Ben Webster. Murphy may have fatty tastes in the food department, but when it comes to music, he is lean and elegant.

  Murphy’s is our home away from home, the place where we have congregated over the years to celebrate new roles, cry over lost roles and, most recently, vilify Stan. At least he brought a new dimension to our conversation.

  Bent, Geoff and Pete were already collapsed into our favourite booth, the one with our signed photos on the wall above. We may have variable incomes, and occasional problems with our telephone bills, but our winsome and dramatic photographs (some of them maybe a bit long in the tooth) hang above us as a reminder of our so-called fame.