The camera crew was in the process of stowing gear into the truck they had parked outside. Roscoe himself had borrowed Brenda’s keys to move her car out of the driveway. Now, as the three of them sat in the comfortable living room, they could hear the wind-whipped rain and the sounds of grunting people moving heavy pieces of equipment out into the wet.
Oxnard and Brenda had brandy snifters in their hands. Gabriel, still clad in only his bath towel, had graciously poured them the drinks while making dates with three of Roscoe’s starlets. He refrained from drinking, himself.
“When did you become a movie actor?” Brenda asked, a quizzical smile on her lips.
“Always been an actor, sweetie,” he replied. “You think sitting through a story conference with some of those assholes you call executives doesn’t take thespic talents?”
“I’ve seen histrionics from you…”
One of the starlets walked barefoot into the living room as far as Gabriel’s slingback chair. She was wearing a knit sweater that barely reached her thighs. Her cascading blonde hair was slightly longer. Her eyes didn’t seem to focus well.
“Hey Ron, honey, can I use your shower?”
“Sure, sure,” he said.
“Thanks.” She bent over and kissed him on the cheek. The sweater rode up and Oxnard found himself tugging at the hem of his borrowed robe, trying to make certain that he was covered adequately. The blonde plodded sleepily out of the room without rearranging her sweater.
“But I don’t understand why you’re performing in Roscoe’s movie,” Brenda resumed.
Gabriel made a sour face. “Money, kid. Why else? You have any idea how much it takes to keep this house going? My gardener makes more than that cutesy-poo does.” He jerked a thumb in the general direction of the partially sweatered starlet.
“But you’ve got so many books and filmscripts… you must make plenty on royalties.”
With a wave of his hand that took in all the illustrations on the walls, Gabriel said, “What books? You know what you get from books? Nickels and dimes. Unless you write a book about a veterinarian’s carnal lust for his customers. Nobody reads about people anymore. I write about people.”
Oxnard felt puzzled. “Aren’t you the Ron Gabriel who writes science fiction? I’ve read some of your stuff.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows went up a centimeter. “Yeah? Like what?”
“Let’s see now…” Oxnard concentrated. “It was… oh yes, ‘The Beast That Had No Mouth.’ and ‘Repent…’ something about a watchmaker.”
Nodding furiously, Gabriel said, “Yeah. And you know how much money I made from those two books? Peanuts! The goddam publishers give you peanuts for an advance, then they sell a zillion copies and claim that they haven’t made enough money to start paying royalties yet!”
“I didn’t know…”
Gabriel leaped out of his chair. “Those humpers! You don’t know the half of it!”
He stomped out of the room. Confused, Oxnard got up and watched Gabriel duck down the house’s central atrium and into a doorway. He slammed the door behind him.
“That’s his office,” Brenda said.
“What’s he…”
The muffled sound of Gabriel’s voice floated back to them. “Sue the bastards… I don’t care what it costs… get them for every nickel they owe me…”
Brenda stood up beside Oxnard “He must be calling his lawyer.”
“At this hour?” Oxnard glanced at his watch. It was after midnight.
“Ron’s friends and associates are accustomed to his late hours. He starts working when the sun goes down.”
“Must be part vampire.”
“It’s been suggested.”
Abruptly, the office door opened and Gabriel came stamping back into the living room. “We’ll get those mothers,” he was muttering.
As they all sat down again, Brenda asked, “What about the TV series you were doing? I thought…”
“Don’t mention it!” Gabriel snapped. “The less said about that, the better.”
For an instant the room was silent, except for the rain drumming on the roof.
Then Gabriel said, “We had the whole goddam series set up. Worked my tail off for six months; fights with the producers, fights with the network, the director, the actors. Finally they began to see the light. It’s all starting to go right. I could feel it! We had it all in the groove…”
“What was the show about?” Oxnard asked.
“Huh? Oh, it was going to be a series based on a short story of mine, about a giant pterodactyl that attacks New York City.”
“I heard about it,” Brenda said. “And then it was cancelled, just before shooting began. What happened?”
“What happened?” Gabriel’s voice went up several notches. “Those lumpheaded brain-damage cases that run the network decided they couldn’t do the show because it wasn’t in three-dee!”
“No!”
“Oh no? Those maggotheads are turning everything into three-dee shows. Everything! I thought, great. The series will be even more spectacular in three-dee. But we’d need a bigger budget and a couple weeks to work out some of the technical problems. Wham! Nothing doing. They cut us off. Done. Finished.”
Oxnard felt vaguely guilty about it. He stirred uneasily in his chair, started to cross his legs, but remembered just. in time and stopped himself.
“Know what they put into our timeslot?” Gabriel was still fuming. “A cops-and-robbers show. Some idiot thing about a robot and a Polack cop. Ever see an animated fireplug doing Polish jokes? Arrgghhh.”
Roscoe suddenly called from the front doorway. “Hey superstar! We’re leaving!”
Without moving from his chair, Gabriel bellowed, “So leave already! Just make sure you send the check tomorrow morning!”
“Will do,” Roscoe hollered back. “Oh, Rita and DeeDee said they’re too tired for the drive back to Glendale. They flaked out in your guest room. Okay by you?”
“Yah, sure. I’ll unflake ’em later on.”
“Good luck, buddy.”
“Break a leg, C.B.”
The door slammed.
Oxnard cleared his throat. “Do you mean that they really cancelled your show because it wasn’t going to be shown in holographic projection?”
“That was their excuse,” Gabriel answered. “They wanted to castrate me. I’m too honest for those Byzantine bronze nosers.” He glowered at Brenda. “And I still say that Finger had something to do with it”
Brenda returned his gaze without flinching.
“But still,” Gabriel grumbled, “I’d like to meet the jerk who started this three-dee crap and…”
“What about that other project you were talking about?” Brenda broke in. “The historical thing. Was it going to be a musical?”
Gabriel scratched at his stubbly chin. “That thingl I got the shaft on that, too.”
“What was it going to be?”
“I was going to do ‘Romeo and Juliet’ in modern terms. You know, instead of Italy in the old times, make it L.A., here, today. Make the two feuding families a pair of TV networks that are fighting it out for the ratings.” He grew more animated, expressive. Getting to his feet, gesticulating: “Then the star from one show on the first network falls in love with a girl from a show on the other network. Their shows are on the air at the same time… they love each other, but their networks are enemies. Then when the executive producers find out about them…”
It took nearly an hour before Gabriel calmed down enough to sit in his chair again. He ended his monologue with:
“Then some jerk says that its just like some old opera called ‘West Side Story.’ I looked it up… wasn’t anything like that at all.”
“So that’s fallen through, too?” Brenda asked.
“That’s right,” Gabriel said, slumping back in his soft chair, looking exhausted. “Every goddam thing I’ve touched for the past year has turned to shit. Every goddam thing.” He sat bolt upright. “It’s gotta be Fingerl He swore I’d never work for anybody in this town again. He’s living up to his name, that no-good.…”