Getting Old Is Criminal Part 32

For a moment, it doesn't connect. "You're kidding." Herbie's face transforms as he puts things together in his mind. He gets up and removes a file from his old oak filing cabinet. "Here's something weird. For that same amount of years, I have been getting money orders from Ray. On almost the exact same dates. Ten percent of what used to be his salary. For a while I didn't cash them, trying to locate him. Figured maybe he was doing some kind of show in some local TV station. But those stations wouldn't pay this kind of money. Eventually I cashed them and kept the receipts in here. But what's that got to do with his using his character name from the show?"

"By any remote chance, did you save the envelopes from where the money orders were sent?"

"No, sorry, I didn't think it would be important, but I remembered they were from various parts of Florida. So I figured he retired down here, too. Everybody does, eventually."

"The checks came each year at the end of March, July, and November. Yes?"

"Wow. Either you're a mind reader or he is in some deep-" He stops himself. "Trouble." He finds a less vulgar word to use in front of the little old lady from a condo.

"I need to talk to someone on his old show as soon as possible. The producer, Ms. Hill? Somehow I doubt my calling her will do any good. Could you arrange a meeting? I'd be willing to fly up to New York to see her."

His eyebrows lift at the sound of that name. "Like I said-everybody moves down here eventually. She lives in Boca. But I gotta tell you a couple of things. She left the show in New York; or rather they eased her out when she got to a certain age. But that woman could not just spend her money and live the good life. s...o...b..z was her life."

"What are you telling me, Mr. Feldkin?"

"You ever see a movie called Sunset Boulevard Sunset Boulevard?"

"Yes, of course. With Gloria Swanson."

"Well, that's this Glory, too. She found some dumpy production company down here and she's producing a two-bit syndicated tape soap for them. But she still behaves like, like, Gloria Swanson. It's a weird scene. She's using her own money for the fancy offices and high salaries. Everybody's playing parts, playing up to Her Highness. But laughing at her behind her back. And taking as much advantage of her as they can. Still wanna see her?"

"Yes, please."

He picks up the phone. "It's a done deal."

I wait until Herbie speaks to what seems like

one secretary after another until he is finally connected to Glory Hill herself. He talks to her as if she were royalty. She seems to be arguing. He uses his charm. "Glory, baby, for your old buddy, please? The woman is a fan. A big fan."

I wait eagerly.

He listens and then looks at me. "Noon, okay?"

"Perfect."

Herbie hangs up fast before she changes her mind. He writes the address on the back of an old envelope he pulls out of the trash and hands it to me. "I gotta warn you, she's crazy, but still a b.i.t.c.h on wheels."

Herbie pulls the photo of Ray Sullivan off the wall, blows the dust off it, and then hands it to me. He walks me to the door. "You were bluffing, weren't you? About this being a matter of life or death."

"No. I'm deadly serious." I can't stop staring at the photo of "Philip."

Herbie shakes my hand. "Listen, maybe you'll let me know how this goes down?"

"You might be reading it in the papers. Even Variety. Variety."

"Good luck, Mrs. Gold. You'll need it. She wasn't called the Black Widow of Daytime for nothing."

FORTY-NINE.

THE PRODUCER.

The young, size-six, adorable blond a.s.sistant gives me a tour as we wind our way through many hallways, with walls totally covered with huge color portraits of the stars that've played on Glory Hill's very famous former long-running soap opera. I search for Philip Smythe/Ray Sullivan, but no luck. Another wall features the stars of the soap opera Glory is working on now. Of course Bree, as the a.s.sistant introduced herself, never calls it by that name. "Daytime serial" is the proper terminology, she instructs me. She walks quickly. I can barely keep up. But then I notice everyone I pa.s.s in the halls is moving at a fast pace.

Doors are open. I get glimpses of actors being made up, but I notice even their feet are tapping, or pacing as they practice lines in their dressing rooms. A woman pushing a hanging rod of costumes fairly runs past me.

I decide to ask Bree, "Doesn't anyone move slowly?" She looks horrified. "Not on this show! That's if you want to keep your job."

I peer at her, thinking she is kidding, but she is serious. We reach a door that says, in large gilt letters, glory hill, executive producer.

Inside, I find three secretaries on different phones, earphones in ears and hands free to busily write down messages. The walls are filled with photos; I a.s.sume they must be of Glory Hill, shaking hands with many, many celebrities. There is also a huge gla.s.s china cabinet filled with awards.

At the far end of this large office, someone is sitting with a stack of what look like scripts. She is writing on each of the covers.

When I listen more carefully, I can tell the secretaries aren't on business calls but on personal calls, chatting and wasting time, and what they are scribbling on their pads is doodles.

My tour guide speaks to one of the women who just hung up.

"Cheryl, this is Mrs. Gold. She has a noon appointment."

"The queen is still on her throne." Mild smirking at that.

At that moment, a loudspeaker blares in the room and a loud hoa.r.s.e voice, with a p.r.o.nounced British accent, is heard. "Get on the horn and get me eight tonight at La Funicular, table for two."

The voice stops. In the ensuing silence I just blurt it out: "Is your producer British?"

The room erupts in screaming laughter.

"Hoddley, m'dear." The one I was just told was Cheryl speaks in a falsetto British parody. "She was born in Flatbush."

The male tells me, "That's in Brooklyn. And don't ever mention you know that or heads will roll."

I wish I hadn't opened my mouth.

"You make the call, Jody," says Cheryl. "I'm not about to get screamed at by that maitre d' again."

"Tim, it's your turn," says Jody, pa.s.sing the buck to the young man at the third desk.

"Why bother. We know what they'll say." He puts on a sn.o.bbish accent. " 'Ms. Hill is no longer welcome at this establishment.' "

They laugh. Apparently they don't care that a total stranger is privy to their snide comments about the hand that feeds them. "Call La Finestre. She'll never remember which one of the 'La's she asked for. They haven't thrown her out. Yet." He makes an elbow/hand-to-mouth gesture that tells me he is referring to too much liquor and probably the behavior that went with it.

My tour guide giggles, but looks at me with embarra.s.sment.

The voice of G.o.d blares again on the speaker. "Make the reservation for five more people. This whole frigging writing staff is having a working dinner meeting."

Now the laughter really erupts. "Poor SOBs," Tim comments. "Wait 'til you see the bar bill."

"It's the only way they'll survive it."

"And none of them will remember a note they take!" Tim sneers.

Bree touches my arm. "Would you like to see where the writers meet?" I think she wants to get me out of there.

In the hall, Bree feels she needs to apologize. "There's always a lot of tension on a show. I mean, we have so many deadlines. And sometimes the writers can be slow. I mean, they try hard, but Ms. Hill is so demanding. She comes from New York, you know, and she expects us to keep up the same standards. I mean, scripts have to be written over and over again. I mean . . ." She stops. She's run out of "I means". I'm getting the picture, though.

Apparently the writers' meeting has just ended. Five exhausted, angry-looking people drag themselves out of a conference room. Various ages, both s.e.xes. They carry arms full of scripts and notebooks and look only at the floor. I hear the same hoa.r.s.e voice coming from inside the room. "And I hope that by tonight one of you, just one of you, will have an idea. Any idea. Something that hasn't been rehashed a thousand times before."

And there she is, the famous Glory Hill. Tall, incredibly skinny, with very short bleached orangered hair and-truthfully? Very ugly. I wonder how many face-lifts she's had, how many experts worked on attempting to change that mug, how much makeup was tried. But there was nothing that would fix that pointy jaw, the sagging eyelids, the ratty hair, the gray, sallow complexion, probably from years of smoking. Which would also explain the voice. All those experts at her command, all that beauty surrounding her, all that money- and there she is. Margaret Hamilton's twin, the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz. The Wizard of Oz. Makes millions of bucks selling beauty she can't have. What irony. Makes millions of bucks selling beauty she can't have. What irony.

"Who's she?" Glory Hill says, annoyed, pointing to me.

"Your noon appointment," Bree answers. I swear she's shaking.

She comes alongside me, dismisses Bree with the back of her hand, keeps looking at her notes, and beckons me to follow. All without missing a step. Here we go again, fast walking. This would be a great place to work if one wanted to lose weight. Or have a heart attack.

"I don't have much time. Taping begins in fifteen. So state your business and be brief."

I don't work for her. I don't need to put up with her tyranny, but I could see how one could get caught up. I automatically get in step with her and state my case. "I need to know about Philip Smythe, the character, and Ray Sullivan, the actorwriter. Specifically I need to know as much as you can tell me about the seducer/serial killer character he created and acted out." Whew. See what pressure can do?

She turns and actually smiles at me, still not slowing up. "Very precise. Organized thoughts. Maybe you'd like a job writing this show. The losers I have to put up with are pathetic hacks."

I smile. "Thanks for the offer, but I'm a retired person. However, I'm working with the Florida police, who believe Ray Sullivan may be a serial killer who has been murdering elderly women for as long as eleven years, using his character's name."

Glory Hill actually stops in her tracks. Her eyes light up. "Ray Sullivan. I fired that drunk from playing that part. And you're telling me he continued acting it out in the real world? Hot d.a.m.n! I could redo this story as a sequel. Is Feldkin still his agent?"

"Slow down," I tell this whirlwind. "First things first. I want to know where he got the idea from. In fact, I want to know everything about this story line-and could we please sit down somewhere?"

She has incredible reflexes. Without missing a beat, she practically pulls me into a room that looks like a costume storeroom. There are two metal folding chairs. She points to one and takes the other. She kicks the door closed and lights up a cigarette. "n.o.body but me can do this. Got it?" She takes out a portable, foldable mini-ashtray and looks at her watch.

"Got it." I guess I better talk fast.Now I have to put up with her secondhand smoke. And the costumes will probably smell by the time we leave.

"Ray came up with the idea. He felt his character of Philip, the rich, lazy playboy, was getting stale. When we'd work late hours and he'd drink a lot, he ranted about his rich old aunt Dorothy, whom he hated and had to take care of all the years she was sick, and how he wished he could have killed her and put her out of her misery. He was stuck with taking care of her until she died. I encouraged his rage. Turn your anger into a story, I told him. Good drama. I told him to write it up. He was around sixty at the time, and not only could he write it, it was perfect for Philip Smythe to evolve into this s.e.xy older, sophisticated gent who went bonkers and started killing old ladies. But here's the funny thing. The next day when Ray was sober, I congratulated him on his story idea. He didn't remember it."

Glory Hill is a great storyteller herself. I'm sitting on the edge of my seat. "But, but-"

She shuts me up. Ms. Hill, I realize, does not like to be interrupted.

"When I told him, he gave me this funny look. He said he loved his aunt Dorothy and willingly took care of her. Ha-ha. That's booze for you. Some people cannot hold their liquor."

I smile, thinking of her secretaries' imitation of her drinking habit. "But being smart, Ray recognized a good plot when he heard it, and so began that story line. Even though, I must admit, he wasn't comfortable writing it. Audiences thought it was great. And scary. And, my dear, the ratings shot up to the sky."

"Do you remember the aunt's full name?"

"Yeah, she was some heiress, Dorothy Sullivan. Ray was the last in a line of a very rich family. It's in my files."

"The story line. What was in it?"

"So Ray, the writer, had Philip, the character, go from one retirement home to another. He'd pick a woman who had no living relatives. They must be real old and near death, or have an illness that would kill them soon. On a certain date, he helped them leave the world forever."

I can hardly sit still, I'm so excited. Everything fit. He was our man, all right. "What did he gain by killing them?"

"Ray didn't want to write the cliche of Philip Smythe being after their money. No, Philip was a mercy killer who dearly loved the old biddies and didn't want them to suffer. But he always took a souvenir."

I want to jump up and down for joy. Maybe this is the missing piece. "Such as?"

She laughs. "He was a killer with cla.s.s. Whatever he took was in excellent taste. He took a painting or an Oriental rug or a rare piece of antique jewelry." She looks at her watch again and taps her long bright orange Cruella De Vil fingernails along the edge of the chair.

I spoke faster. "Why did you fire him?"

"Because we began to realize the audience was freaking out. Soaps are about love and s.e.x, not about scaring the c.r.a.p out of the viewers. We were getting terrified letters. Especially from old broads who were afraid to go to sleep at night. Now, get this, you'll love it: I told Ray to kill Smythe off or put him in jail, or have him find G.o.d and repent. Just stop the story. He agreed. It was even making him queasy. But Ray, the actor, wouldn't do it."

"What do you mean?"

"Ray, in his tuxedo, would get on the set and fling the script against a wall and say, 'Philip Smythe has to keep killing!'

"That was it, the booze had taken over. Maybe even drugs. Who knows? He was getting crazier and crazier. I like that in my writers, but he fell off the edge. He was drunk on and off the set. I had no choice. The network made me dump him. So good-bye, Ray."

Wow! I can hardly wait to call Morrie.

Glory snaps her little ashtray shut and she's on the move again.

I rush after her. "Did you ever hear about him or from him again?"

"Funny you should mention that. I get a note three times a year. Not signed, but I know it's from him."

"How do you know?"

"He includes a photo. A rug. A rare piece of jewelry. You know, like all the souvenirs he took on the show. I thought he was just teasing me. To tell me what I've missed by firing him."

I feel my heart popping out of my chest. "Please tell me you saved the photos."

"Of course I did. I never throw anything out. Everything goes in my memoirs. If I ever stop working and write them. A lot of people will be sorry when I do. You want them?"

"You bet!"