The Starcrossed

“Well, that’s one thing you and Ron Gabriel have in common,” Montpelier said.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“He doesn’t drink, either.”

“Really?” Good’s perpetual smile got wider and somehow tenser. “That’s a surprise.”

“What do you mean?”

“From all the depravity in his scripts, I assumed he was either an alcoholic or a drug fiend. Or both.”

“Depravity?” Monteplier heard his voice squeak.

“Yer not married or nuthin’, are yew?” asked Connors. Brenda shook her head slowly. “No, I’m a rising young corporate executive.”

He was working on his second bourbon and water. Their dinners remained on a corner of the table, untouched. “Must be tough to get ahead. Lotsa competition.” “Quite a bit.” Brenda sipped at her vodka sour.

“If TNT sponsored yer new show, it’s be a real feather in yore cap, huh?”

“Yes it would. But I won’t go to bed with you for it” Connors’ face fell. “Wh… who said anything about that? I’m a married man!”

Now Brenda permitted herself to smile again. “I’m sorry,” she said with great sincerity. “I didn’t mean to shock you. But, well… there are lots of men who try to take advantage of a woman in a situation like this. I’m glad you’re not that kind of man.”

“Hell, no,” said Connors, looking puzzled, disappointed and slightly nettled.

Brenda sweetened her smile. Have to introduce him to some of the professional ladies working at the hotel, she knew, before he decides to get angry.

Earnest sat across the table from Dulaq. Between the two men sat Gloria Glory and Rita Yearling. Four appetizers had been served; two were still sitting untouched but Dulaq’s and Gloria’s were already demolished.

“And you, you great big hunk of muscle,” Gloria turned to Dulaq, “how do you like acting?”

The hockey star shrugged. “It’s okay. Ain’t had a chance t’really do much… wit’ the riot and all…”

Earnest felt his blood pressure explode in his ears.

“Riot?” Gloria looked instantly alert. “What riot?”

“It wasn’t a riot,” Earnest said quickly. “It was just a bit of a misunderstanding…”

“I’m afraid it was all my fault,” Rita offered.

“Dis Gabriel guy gimme a hard time, so I punched him out.”

“You hit Ron Gabriel?”

For an instant there was absolute silence at the table. Even Dulaq seemed to realize, in his dim way, that Gloria’s reaction would have enormous implications for his future in show business.

“Uh… yeah. Once. Between de eyes.”

Gloria’s bloated face seemed to puff out even more and she suddenly let loose a loud guffaw. “Oh no! You punched that little creep between the eyes! Oh, it’s too marvelous!” She roared with laughter.

Dulaq and Rita joined in. Earnest laughed too, but his mind was racing. Fearfully, he touched Gloria’s bouffant sleeve. She wiped tears from her eyes as she turned to him.

“Um, Gloria,” he begged. “You’re not going to, uh… broadcast this, are you?”

“Broadcast it? Ron Gabriel getting what he’s always asking for? It’s too delicious!”

“Yes, but it could, well… it could reflect poorly on the show.”

Gloria put her napkin to her lips and for a wild instant Earnest thought she was going to devour it. But instead she wiped her mouth and then flapped the napkin in Earnest’s direction, saying:

“Greg… you don’t mind me calling you Greg, do you?”

Earnest hated being called Greg, but he said, “No, of course not.”

“All right, Greg, now listen. It has always been my policy to speak no evil of the people I like. I like Bernie Finger and I love this heavyweight champion you’ve got here…” She nodded in Dulaq’s direction. “And you’ve got a lovely new starlet She’s going to be a winner, I know. So, no matter how much I loathe Gabriel, I won’t breathe a word about the fight over the air.”

Earnest sighed. “Oh, thank you, Gloria.”

“Nothing to it. You are getting rid of the little creep, though, aren’t you?”

“Oh we certainly are,” Earnest assured her. “He’s on his way out. Never fear.”

Ron Gabriel, meanwhile, had arrived and let himself be led quietly to Les Montpelier’s booth. He didn’t see Gloria, Earnest, et. al., mainly because he was wearing dark glasses and the restaurant’s twilight lighting level was quite dim. As it was, Gabriel had a little difficulty following the head waiter who showed him to the booth. He tripped over a step and bumped into a waitress on the way. He cursed at the step and made a date with the girl.

As he slid into the booth, he said, “I’m not eating anything. They just pumped me so full of antibiotics at the hospital that all I want to do is go, home and sleep. Let’s just talk business and skip the socializing.”

Before Montpelier could respond, Elton Good pulled a thick wad of notes from his jacket pocket.

“Very well, Mr. Gabriel. I like a man who speaks his mind. There are eighty-seven changes that need to be made in your script before its acceptable to FINC.”

“Eighty-seven?”

Good nodded smilingly. “Yes. And as you know, hehheh, without FINC’s mark of approval, your script cannot be shown on American television.”

“Eighty-motherloving-seven,” Gabriel moaned.

“Here’s the first of them,” said Good, peering at his notes in the dim lighting. His smile widened. “Ah, yes… when you have the character Rom standing behind the character Ben, who’s sitting at the command console, I believe…”

“That’s in the second scene,” Montpelier murmured.

“Yes. Rom puts his hand on Ben’s shoulder… that’s got to come out.”

“Huh? Why?”

Good’s smile turned tickening. “Can’t you see? It’s too suggestive. One man standing behind another man and then touching him on the shoulder! Children will be watching this show, after all!”

Gabriel looked across the table at Montpelier. Even though half the writer’s face was covered by dark glasses, Montpelier could read anguish and despair in his expression.

“I shorely do love my wife,” Connors was telling Brenda, between bites of steak. “But, well, hell, honey… I travel an awful lot. And I’m not exactly repulsive. When I see somethin’ I like, I don’t turn my back to it.”

“That’s understandable,” Brenda said. She toyed with her salad for a moment, then asked, “And what does your wife do while you’re away on all these business trips?”

He dropped his fork into his lap. “Whattaya mean?” Brenda widened her eyes. “I mean, does she fill in the time with volunteer work or social clubs or at the golf course? She doesn’t stay home with the children all the time, does she?”

Connors scowled at her. “No, I reckon she doesn’t. We belong to the country club. And she’s a voluntary librarian, over t’the school.”

“I see.”

He retrieved his fork and studied it for a moment, then changed the subject as he went back to the attack on his steak. “I wanted t’get yore opinion about how many TNT products we can use on the show? As props, I mean.”

“Well,” Brenda said, “the action’s supposed to be taking place seven hundred years in the future. I don’t think too many existing products will be in keeping with the scenario…”

Connors! face brightened. “They’ll still be usin’ wristwatches, won’t they? We make wristwatches. And pocket radios, calculators, all sorts of stuff.”

“Yes, but if they’re the same products that are being advertised during the commercial breaks, then the viewers will…”