Seattle Noir

Neighborhood.

IV

Mel was lounging on the patio chaise reading Variety when he heard “the Sound.” The rubber butt of Skippy’s walking cane thudding on flagstone made Mel cringe. Skippy had adopted the ornate cane as an iconic eccentricity. Thought it made him look debonair. Mel thought it looked ridiculous. A dwarf with a cane.

Mel glanced up. A blue PGA cap shaded Skippy’s face but Mel could sense a sullen pout. Skippy’s arms overflowed groceries, the cane poised to thud again. Sighing, Mel set Variety aside and went to help. Mel carried the groceries into the house, Skippy and his cane gimping along behind.

This limp was something new.

“What’s wrong now?” Mel asked tiredly.

“Awful bad news,” grumped the gimper, missing Mel’s reference to the new limp. “If you really want to know.” Skippy paused to emphasize the awfulness, then blurted, “No call back.”

Mel clucked his tongue. “Tough luck, sport.” He thought about bringing up the new limp, but why bother? Skippy would complain about it before long. Mel fed the groceries into the icebox while Skippy hung in the background, a broken shadow watching Mel work.

Stars don’t put away groceries.

“Henry Chow’s getting the part.” The broken shadow spoke bitterly. “That’s what Lana thinks. Like she was Henry’s agent exclusively. Like she didn’t even represent me. Talk about a two-faced, double-dealing opportunistic…”

When Mel didn’t comment, Skippy limped into the breakfast nook and slid onto a sunstruck bench. Warm sunshine cut through a windowpane, washed the fine stubble on his baby-face cheeks, refracting into tiny dots that danced along the wall. Skippy tried batting the dots away. When that failed, he flung his golf cap at them. It landed squarely on Mel’s fresh orchid centerpiece. Mel’s signature, Mel’s pride. Skippy gazed disgustedly out the window.

Mel brought tall glasses and a pitcher of iced tea with frost dripping off it. When he poured, he didn’t spill a drop, that’s how fastidious he was. Skippy needn’t have disturbed the flower arrangement, Mel thought. The least Skippy could do is pick the golf cap off the orchids, put things right. Where were Skippy’s manners? Maybe stars don’t need manners.

Skippy’s tight lips blew light ripples across the iced tea’s crown. He sipped, scowling, and said, “That role was tailor-made for me.”

“M-hmm.” Noncommittal.

Skippy persisted. “It doesn’t compute. Henry’s never played a clown before. This film’s about an aging dwarf clown. Henry Chow doesn’t know the first thing about playing a clown. I know clowning. I should have that part.”

“Maybe they wanted an Asian.”

“Oh, nothing’s definite yet.” Skippy sounded slightly hopeful. “It’s just Lana’s professional gut feeling that Henry’s got it wrapped up. Anyway, if he gets the part, it’s not because he’s Asian.”

“Then why?” Mel was only half listening. He wanted that golf cap removed from the orchid centerpiece, and he wanted Skippy to have the decency to do it. Was that asking too much?

“Because Henry’s shorter than I am.”

“That’s not so. You’re shorter than Henry. They probably wanted an Asian. You know how politically correct Hollywood is these days. Lana Lanai’s the worst of the bunch.”

Skippy was adamant. “Asian has nothing to do with it. If Henry gets this role, it’s because he’s shorter than I am. Now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m growing, Mel.”

The way Skippy said it, so serious, so… melodramatic, Mel couldn’t help laughing. “Ha ha. That’s bull.”

Skippy reached across the table and touched Mel’s sleeve. Lightly, to fix attention on what he was going to say.

“It’s true. I’ve noticed it. You know it sometimes happens to a dwarf. Mid-life hormones get wacky. My hormones must have kicked up. I’m growing, Mel. Real fast.”

Mel smirked.

Skippy insisted. “They noticed it. Must have. Or else Henry Chow did and pointed it out to them. I wouldn’t put it past him and I’m worried sick. This growth has happened over the last six weeks. Too fast. I’m fifty-three, for chrissake. It’s not normal.”

“But not unheard of in dwarfs. You said that.”

Skippy passed a hand across his brow, reminding Mel of Tallulah Bankhead, then said, “Oh God, I’m scared. I’ll never work again. And I bet you noticed it before. You must have noticed my limp. You did, didn’t you?”

Mel nodded solemnly.

“Oh God, I’m finished.”

Softly, Mel said, “What’s the limp all about?”

Skippy had parked his cane on the doorknob. He retrieved it and walked back toward Mel. “See? When I use the cane, I limp. That’s because I’ve grown. Just since I bought this cane two months ago. Cost me a bundle too, cherrywood with all this frippery on the handle. Now it’s already too short for me.

So I limp. If this keeps up, I’ll soon be too tall for the good dwarf roles. I’ll never get work again. Not even as an extra.”

Something dark flickered in Mel’s eyes, and Skippy instantly regretted his remark. “Geez, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been such a lucky son of a gun, and you always ending up an extra. All I meant was, my luck’s changing. That’s all I meant by that.”

Mel laughed and grabbed Skippy’s head like a football, wrestled it, ruffling the soft silver curls. “It’s great,” he chuckled, “just great. I like it. A growing dwarf. It’s hilarious, really. You should try it out on Nick down at the Magic Castle.”

A horrified thought struck Skippy then. He flung himself away from Mel. “You don’t believe me,” he cried. “You don’t buy a word I said.”

Mel stared. Skippy fled the room.

Sighing, Mel gently removed the blue golf cap from his orchids. Apparently stars have the right to ruin centerpieces. Mel took his iced tea outside and finished reading Variety.

That night Mel made frozen lime daiquiris with dark rum, placing a fresh orchid on top of one. He knocked on Skippy’s door, heard a grunt, and went in. Wide awake, enveloped in darkness, Skippy sat stiffly upright on his canopied bed. Mel set down the daiquiris and jerked the heavy drapes aside. Moonlight poured into Skippy’s cluttered, musty room. Skippy blinked, averted his eyes. Mel pushed a loud chintz chair up to the bed, climbed onto it, retrieved the daiquiri with the orchid, and held it out to Skippy. Skippy waved it away.

“C’mon, take it, sport. My peace offering.”

Skippy sipped the frosty apology, licked his lips, and said, “I fell asleep for a while. I dreamed that Henry Chow died in an awful accident on the SLUT. They found his body floating in Lake Union, all covered with Satan’s hoof prints. The train had derailed.”

Mel aimed a remote control at the flat screen. Crazy colors flashed. Cacophony galloped into the room, riding a loud car chase across the high-def panel.

Mel muttered, “Henry Chow’s an ass.”

V