CHAPTER TEN - THE PIANO PLAYER

This is Chapter 10. If you would like to read the story from the beginning, please click on the pink tabs above.

The City of Angels Christian Church was located on Wilton Place in Hollywood, not far from CTM Broadcasting. The large, traditional church had nine thousand members in the congregation. There were three ministers and two associate ministers who led the large flock. Two Sunday morning services were scheduled to handle the volume of worshippers.

Paul joined the large church upon his arrival to Los Angeles. It was a vibrant congregation with a large mission support, not only internationally, but locally as well. Several movie stars had even placed their membership. Of course Paul never saw them at services, and when a new guru appeared, some of the movie stars dropped their memberships and followed the religion of the month.

Paul had seen Cory Stilling at services. She was a celebrity of sorts. He had seen her in a few movies, but Cory wasn’t a superstar. Word was out that she was difficult to work with. Wayne Hampton had made sure of that. Paul didn’t know anything about that. He did know that Cory had a “Doris Day” image. She was “Miss Squeaky Clean” as called by the mainstream movers and shakers. But Doris Day-type films weren’t being shot these days.

He had hoped to show Cory one of his scripts. Maybe she could get a worthwhile producer to read it. Cory was very active in the church’s work, but Paul was shy about approaching her. Maybe she would laugh at him. Yet, she seemed nice enough. And she seemed approachable.

Cory Stilling wasn’t in his thoughts as he approached Minister Wooley after services.

“I like your history lessons,” said Paul as he shook the older man’s hand.

“Thank you Paul. I take that as a compliment from a former history major.”

The two of them had worked together on various projects. Minister Wooley’s sermons were heavy laden in history. He not only studied the Bible, but the geography and traditions of the middle east in the 1^st century. When he spoke of Jesus, in the temple as a boy, Minister Wooley spoke of the carnival-like atmosphere of Jerusalem during Passover. Wooley showed his congregation the busy streets of out of towners, and the fear that Joseph and Mary felt when they couldn’t find their son.

Minister Wooley’s best sermon was when he was in the book of Revelation. “In the sixth chapter, as the sixth seal was opened, there was a great earthquake.”

At that moment, an earthquake hitting four on the Richter Scale shook the huge auditorium. For a moment, the lights blinked and some of the mosaic glass shattered. There were screams of surprise, especially from those in the balcony, but no one panicked. After a few moments, it was still. The good minister smiled at the congregation. “I would like to thank our dear Lord for the special effects today.” This brought on relieved laughter, and he continued his sermon.

Paul’s mind wasn’t on Biblical history, or earthquakes as he spoke to Minister Wooley. He was thinking of his upstairs neighbor, Senta. He had only seen her that one time, but he knew he was head over heels in love. In high school he dated infrequently. In fact, the girl he dated most was George Tobin’s cousin, Marsha. But theirs had been a friendship more than a romance. Paul had never truly felt smitten by the opposite sex. Not until he ran into Senta. He could not stop thinking about her.

“Minister Wooley, do you know of anyone who plays the piano? I know someone who’s looking for a rehearsal pianist.”

“Well let me see. Mrs. Hanspard, our organist has a son who toured with Pat Boone. Maybe she’ll know someone.”

He found Mrs. Hanspard coming down from the balcony. “Mrs. Hanspard?” He offered his hand.  “Paul Morgan.”

Her eyes searched his mutilated face with fascination. “Good morning Paul. How are you?”

“I’m doing great. And your organ music is very beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Minister Wooley said that you might know someone who could serve as a rehearsal pianist.” Mrs. Hanspard looked up in thought, furrowing her brow.

“Sure. There’s Amy Davis, my assistant…Carl Helper, Donna Jenkins…oh, are you an actor?”  Paul laughed to himself. Didn’t they see how deformed his face was?

“No ma’am. This is for a professional singer though.”

“I know someone who’d probably work out. Over at the Christian Church on 4^th in Pasadena, there’s a pianist…what was the name…Zeke.  Zeke Rosnowsky. I’ve never met him, but I heard a gospel album he did. And I think he’s a professional accompanist. Zeke Rosnowsky, I’m sure that’s the name. He might be related to Claude and Cynthia Rosnowsky. They’re in the choir. You might go over and see him.”

“Thank you Mrs. Hanspard. I appreciate it.”

“You can tell him that I recommend him, but since I’ve never met him, he won’t know who I am.”

Paul gave a polite nod and headed towards the exit.

The Christian Church on 4^th Street was a lot smaller than the City of Angels Church. It was a modest building with a faded sign, peeling in the sun. Where do they have Sunday school, Paul wondered as he turned into the gravel driveway. The building was a low, one-story affair, made of red brick. The auditorium was about the size of two large living rooms.

As Paul walked up the short concrete walk, he heard the melody of “How Great Thou Art”. Although it was an hour after services, he was in luck. Zeke Rosnowsky was apparently still there.

He entered the front door and immediately found himself in the auditorium. And it was just as he imagined…about the size of two large living rooms. There were about nine rows of pews on each side. It reminded Paul of an old country church he’d been to in Louisiana. 

Up on the platform was a dark, oak pulpit. To the left was a young girl playing the piano. Not Zeke Rosnowsky. She looked to be about fourteen. She was thin, with a pageboy cut to her brown hair. Her pants were army fatigues and her shirt was a checkered flannel affair with patches on the elbows. She wore glasses over a small nose. Her hands were delicate and slender. She seemed to be lost in her song.

Paul walked deeper into the auditorium. She seemed so focused, he didn’t want to startle her.

“Hello?”  he called out. She continued to play, oblivious of his presence. The song was familiar to him, but the tune seemed more inspiring in this empty, little church. Maybe it was the solitary figure of the girl, but he felt like she was talking to God and Paul was an intruder. “Hello there!”  he called out a little louder this time. She stopped playing and looked over at him. The face behind the glasses was unafraid, but cautious. Sometimes people gasped when they got a look at Paul’s face.

“Can I help you?”

“I was looking for Mr. Rosnowsky.”

“He’s not here right now.”

“I’m Paul Morgan. I worship over at the City of Angles on Wilton.”

“Welcome Mr. Morgan. I can give you his number. He’s my dad.”

“That’d be great.” Paul walked up to the piano. The girl scribbled down a number on the corner of some sheet music, then tore it off and handed it to him. “I didn’t mean for you to tear your music.”

“It’s okay, I can still read it.” She smiled and Paul looked for braces on her teeth, but it was an even, white smile. “Have you got a job for Dad?”

“I think so. I’ve heard he’s very good.”

“He’s the best. How did you hear about him?”

“Mrs. Hanspard, our organist.”

The girl took off her glasses and furrowed her brow in thought. Her eyes were hazel, leaning towards aquamarine.

“Mrs. Hanspard…doesn’t sound familiar.”

“She said that her name wouldn’t mean a whole lot to him.” She noticed that he was looking deeply into her eyes.

“Is anything wrong?” 

 Paul was scrunching up his eyebrows. “No, I…are you wearing contacts?” 

She put her glasses back on. “No, I have glasses.”

“Of course,” he laughed. “That was stupid of me. I just thought your eyes were an unusual, but beautiful color.”

“Thank you Mr. Morgan. Call Dad at that number. He’s probably at home watching the ball game.”

Paul turned towards the door, and then he turned back to the girl. “Does he mind working at night? I think that’s when he’ll be needed.” 

The girl looked puzzled. “Night? I don’t know. I don’t think he’s ever worked at night.” 

This was odd. “He’s a musician and he’s never worked at night?” 

She was shaking her head. “Dad’s a house painter.”

“Zeke Rosnowsky?”

 She laughed. “Oh, I’m Zeke.”

She was a week past her 22^nd birthday when Paul first met her. Zeke had a skinny little body of a tomboy and the face of a teenager. He was shocked to learn that she’d earned a business degree at Cal-State Fullerton, and was working at an accounting firm in downtown Los Angeles.

“What kind of music does this person sing?” she asked.

 Paul thought of Senta’s repertoire. “Just about anything, although I don’t think she’s ever sung a hymn.”

“Hymn’s are the best, but I play just about anything”. He’d heard her play “How Great Thou Art” and it was soulful. Could she play the other types of music with such feeling?

“Could I hear you play something popular, Zeke?”

“Well I haven’t auditioned for about ten years, but I think I could play you something. But not here. I live about a block away. We could go over there.”

“Sure.”

Zeke’s apartment was cluttered with sheet music. A couple of her albums lay on the coffee table. Would you like some tea, Paul?”

“Please.” He picked up an album. On the cover was the cross. The title was “In His Shadow”. On the back were the lyrics to the fifteen hymns on the album and a tiny black and white picture of Zeke at the piano. With her pageboy hair cut and youthful features, she looked like a young boy. He wouldn’t tell her that, but if this was the album Mrs. Hanspard had had, he could see how the woman thought that Zeke was a male. Of course the name helped. “How many albums have you done?”

Zeke was entering with a tray and two glasses of iced tea. She set it on the coffee table. “That’s my newest one. I did two more.”

“Did you sell many?”

“A few. Mostly through the church network. A Christian bookstore carried “Gospel Time” which was my first one, but it wasn’t a big seller.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, the bookstore went out of business.”  She feigned a worried expression. “Gee, I hope I didn’t cause them to go out of business.”

“I doubt that,” he said.

Zeke went over to the piano in the corner and picked another album off of it. On it was a manger scene. The title was simply, “Noel”. “This Christmas album that I did, sold well at a record shop in Fullerton. And just about everybody and his brother at 4t^h Street Church and the City of Angels bought a copy.”

 Paul gave a low, impressed whistle. “That’s a lot of copies.”

 Zeke sat down at the piano. “What would you like to hear?”

 Paul shrugged as he took a seat and a sip of the tea. “Surprise me.” Zeke nodded. 

She stared at the keys like she was planning to make a chess move. Then she put her glasses on her head and closed her eyes. Paul had remembered how lost she was in her music at the church. She had that same lost expression.

Paul, himself, felt like he was going into a trance as he waited for Zeke to play. He was about to say something when her long, slender fingers started their magic. Her first selection was Rachmaninoff, which flowed into “Rhapsody In Blue” which flowed into “Killing Me Softly”. Mesmerized, he listened to classical, jazz, songs from “My Fair Lady” and “Man of La Mancha”, several Beatles songs, Elton John, Blood, Sweat and Tears, then some slow love ballads.

Zeke finished with “Summer Breeze”, leaving Paul limp. He had not moved from his chair for forty-five minutes. Had it been that long? 

Then he realized Zeke was talking to him. “I’m sorry Zeke, what?”

 She was leaning on the piano, playing “Chopsticks” soft and slow. “I said, is that what you’re looking for?”

With a shyness he’d never known, Paul went upstairs to see Senta. When she opened the door, he could smell the marijuana that permeated her apartment.

“Well look who’s here, my downstairs neighbor.”

“Hello Senta.”

“Come on in.” She left him standing in the door and walked back into her apartment. She picked up her hand rolled cigarette. “You want a toke?”

“Uh, no thanks. I don’t smoke…especially if it’s illegal.” 

Senta shrugged. “Whatever flies your kite. Kick off your shoes.”

He wandered into the apartment and took a seat on her piano stool. Why did she have to smoke the marijuana? Not that he was surprised. He knew she used cocaine. He had not missed the redness around her nostrils. He’d seen plenty of that in Vietnam.

“Listen, Senta, I think I’ve got you a rehearsal pianist.”

 Her eyes lit up. She was so beautiful. “That was real sweet of you.”

“Her name is Zeke. And she’s very, very good.”

“Zeke. Odd name for a she.  I need someone who is very, very good. Is Zeke interested in playing for my act?”

“I don’t think she’ll play in a night club.” 

Senta waved him off. “No matter. The club always has a pianist skulking around.”

 Paul reached into his shirt pocket and handed her Zeke’s number. “Give her a call. I’m sure she’ll be good for you.”

“I’ll do it after my pool laps.”

He was memorizing her straight nose and freckled chin. Suddenly he was conscious of his own scarred face and he felt like he was in the middle of the tale, “The Beauty and the Beast”.

“Your voice is incredible. I listen to you every night.”

“I hope you enjoy it.”

 Paul nodded. “Oh yes. I think everybody here at Palm Harbor enjoys the free show every night.”

“Maybe I should sell tickets.” She blew a puff of smoke into the air. Then she leaned back in the chair. “You’re welcome up here any time to listen.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

Paul couldn’t think of anything else to say. He wanted to ask her out, but was afraid she’d turn him down. Funny. He’d earned a purple heart and this bold red head had turned him into jelly without even trying.

“Well…I’d better take off,” he said. “I need to finish up a scene I’m working on.” 

She stood up and walked to the door. “I’ll give Zeke a call.”

“Great.” Taking the hint that she was at the door, Paul headed for it. 

She looked at him blankly. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.” Paul felt a fist wrapping around his heart and giving it a hard squeeze.

“Paul.  Paul Morgan.” She put a hand lightly on the side of his face. This helped relieve the gripping fist.

“Paul. Nice name. You’re a great guy, thanks.”

With trembling legs, Paul Morgan, the nice guy, walked downstairs to his apartment.

Zeke and Senta hit it off after their first rehearsal. After introducing them, Paul went back to his apartment to make them sandwiches. Senta was adding new songs to her act, along with some she’d written. Listening to the music coming from the apartment upstairs, he had to admit, Zeke’s playing was much better than Trevor, the guy that Senta had before.

He brought the sandwiches up with some cold drinks. “Here’s some energy food.” 

Senta walked to her bar. “Forget the colas. Let’s have a beer. Zeke?” Zeke shook her head. Before Senta could offer, Paul held up his hands.

“I’m strictly a Pepsi man.”

“How dull,” said Senta, as she popped the top off a Budweiser. “If you guys are going to be in show business, you’ve got to learn to drink.” 

Zeke laughed. “I’m not in show business. I’m just playing.” 

Senta shifted her eyes to Paul. “Sir Galahad here wants to be a screenwriter. He’ll get used to those two martini lunches with the producers if he sells a script.”

“When I sell a script,” Paul corrected. 

 Senta shrugged. “When, if, whatever.” She walked over to the piano and handed Zeke a new piece of music. “Let’s try this one. I wrote it last night.” 

Zeke read the title. “Hmm. “Vegas Nights”.  Cool.”

This was a slow, mournful song about smoky rooms, rough men, and lost opportunity. It sounded autobiographical. Paul wondered how much of it was true.

They went over “Vegas Nights” several times. Senta made changes and was receptive to Zeke’s suggestions. As they finished, Senta put a hand on her new friend’s shoulder.

“You not only play a mean piano, but you’re the first woman I’ve worked with. I kind of like it. Men are always trying to put the moves on me.” Zeke’s face reddened and she looked down at the music. “Are you sure you don’t want to come to the club and play for me Zeke? You could make some good money.”

 Zeke looked up at her. “I don’t play nightclubs.”

“Too bad,” sniffed Senta.

 Paul cleaned up his sandwich plates. “I really liked “Vegas Nights”. It’s a good song.”

 Zeke agreed. “You should record that one.”

 Sincere surprise entered Senta’s face. “You think so?” Both Paul and Zeke nodded. Senta smiled. Paul realized it was one of the few times she’d smiled all evening. “Maybe I will.”

Zeke gathered up some of the music she’d brought. She looked at Paul and Senta. Paul couldn’t take his eyes off the red head.

“Guess I’ll head out. This was fun,” she said.

 Senta blew her a kiss. “If you change your mind about the nightclub work, let me know.”

“Sure. Tomorrow night, same time?”

“Sounds good, Zeke.”

Zeke held up a finger. “And like I said, no Wednesday nights.”

“Don’t worry, I can use a night off,” said Senta.

Paul walked Zeke down to her car. “Thanks again, Zeke.”

“I like her. She’s got a lot of talent.”

“You don’t want any leftover sandwiches?”

She patted her stomach. “One more thin slice of ham and I’ll burst.”

“Guess I’ll head back up there and get my plates.”

He gave her a final wave as Zeke started her car. Then, he headed back up to see Senta. “Just came back for a couple of plates. Senta looked at Paul with a softness he’d not seen. “Thank you for sending her to me, Paul. She’s really good. And I’ve heard some good ones.”

“You’re welcome.” 

She put a hand to the back of his neck and pulled him to her. “Guess I’m going to have to make the first move,” she said. Their lips met. The kiss was long and passionate. Then, Senta got more aggressive and he pulled back.

“Hold it. Hold on,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. He was feeling a lot of conflict. This was a fantasy come true. But was it right? Senta was beautiful. He was very attracted to her. But she was dangerous. He was a Christian. She wasn’t. Where could their relationship possibly go?

“Senta, listen.” What could he tell her? He was trying to catch his breath and hold back the passion that assaulted his senses. He really wanted her. But it wasn’t right. “Senta, I can’t do this. I want to, believe me.” 

She pulled away from him. “Calm down Sport. I’m not going to rape you.”

“I…I’m a Christian. And I can’t do this.” 

Senta’s face darkened. “So you’re a Christian. Are you telling me Christians don’t play around?”

“No, it’s…I mean…”

She was on him again. Senta was like a hot magnet of flesh. It was like she was challenging him. Paul wanted to hold her and kiss her all over. He felt himself weakening.

“Come on, loosen up,” she said in a husky whisper. He kissed her hard on the mouth. “Yes. Let’s do it.” With as much strength as he had left, Paul pulled away. “What?! What is it?!” she demanded, her frustration growing.

“I can’t do this. We don’t…we aren’t right for each other. Not yet.” The fury on her face left. 

She rolled her eyes. “Oh brother.”  Senta let him go and walked over to the bar as if nothing had happened. 

Paul couldn’t stop trying to apologize. “It’s just that…I’m looking for the right person Senta, and…”

 Her eyes narrowed. “And I’m not the right person.”

“No, I didn’t mean that, I…”

“Hey buster, I hate to tell you this, but I don’t look good in virgin white. You’re a pompous idiot. Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a pompous idiot?”

He wanted to show her that she was wrong. Paul didn’t think he was better than she was, but Senta needed help. He had to somehow get her on the right path.

“I hate to say this Paul, but have you looked in the mirror? I don’t think there’s many women out there looking to date Quasimodo.” Paul ignored the insult.

 He tried to continue his thought. “You’re right. I am an idiot. But we’re so different..”

“That’s an understatement,” she muttered sarcastically. Paul couldn’t find the words. Then he blurted it out.

“Come to church with me this Sunday.” 

Senta threw her head back and laughed. “You are priceless.”

 Then he blurted out the unthinkable. “I…I think I’m in love with you.”

 Senta laughed even harder. “Please Paul, stop! My side is beginning to ache!” She kept laughing.

“I love you,” he insisted, feeling the moment slip away. 

Senta gasped for breath as she spoke. “I’m sure you do, Paul.”  She was getting control again. “Go downstairs and work on your little script. Guess I’ll go to bed alone tonight.” 

He wanted to sink into the floor. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said quietly. 

She gave him a dismissive wave. “Yeah, see ya.”

Zeke pulled on to the freeway and headed towards Pasadena. Until she’d seen Paul and Senta together, she’d not realized he had a crush on the red headed siren. The girl was loaded with talent, but she was trouble.

Not my problem, she thought, as she swung into the fast lane. Maybe Paul could get the girl into church before she got him into bed. Zeke laughed to herself. Senta was bad news. Well, she was Paul’s problem. Zeke would work with the girl, but that was it. Maybe if they became close friends, Zeke could use her influence on her. She’d be a tough nut to crack.

“We are stewards,” she reminded herself. She looked at the bright lights of the freeway in deep thought. We’re suppose to bring people to Christ.  Maybe there was a way.

Senta had a rare night off. Once Zeke had left, she’d hoped to lure Paul into her bed. He was shy and sweet, but he was one of those weirdo Christians who invoked the name of “Jesus” every five minutes. Well, no thank you Mr. Morgan.

The scotch was beginning to make the furniture blur. When things blurred, that was good. She’d run out of her current supply of coke. Scotch was a poor substitute, but if she drank enough, it helped dull the senses. If old Paul knew she’d been a prostitute in Vegas, he’d bring his whole congregation down on her. She wondered about Zeke. Yep. Zeke was one of them. She didn’t drink beer or play the clubs. Too bad. Zeke had talent.

Senta slid off the barstool and went over to the picture window. Peeking through the drapes, she could see down into the courtyard. The pool was lit, but empty. She could hear a Dodger game on a radio from one of the apartments below. Then a baby’s cry echoed from somewhere. Or was she imagining it? Sometimes when she was drunk, reality and fantasy danced together.

The baby. She wondered. Had it been a boy or a girl? He, she, it, would be four years old now. She turned away from the window. Stop it, Senta! What’s done is done. You washed your hands of the matter years ago.

She sauntered drunkenly into the bedroom and collapsed on the soft quilt. She could still hear the baby’s cry. She covered her ears.

Paul could not believe how things turned so quickly. He didn’t know Senta well enough, but he felt like he’d said the right thing about being a Christian. Telling her that he was in love with her was a big mistake. What was he thinking? He had never felt this out of control before. It didn’t feel good. That night, he prayed for a solution.

When Zeke got home, she was still thinking of Paul and Senta. She decided that those two people had to be rescued. Senta was definitely headed down the wrong path. And Paul had to be rescued from Senta.

CHAPTER NINE - PALM HARBOR APARTMENTS

Santa Monica, 1974. In the middle of the complex was a swimming pool and wet bar. Most of the units were clean and well kept. The renters were a mixture of singles and young marrieds. Many were college students, many were aspiring actors, singers, and writers holding down jobs as shoe clerks, couriers, and waitresses.

Piano music flowed over the pool area, along with clattering typewriters, friendly chatter and the occasional bark of a contraband pet. In apartment 110, Paul Morgan was burning up the keys of his Smith-Corona. The night before, he’d had a script idea that kept pulling him over to the typewriter. This could be the one, he thought. It was his third screenplay. The first two had been rejected by every agent he’d sent them to. Everyone was looking for disaster movies or corrupt cop films. His scripts weren’t like that. In fact, the stuff he was writing could be described as old fashion. He believed in a good story with moral characters. His minister had read both scripts and was enthusiastic.

“I’m not a movie producer Paul, but I’d buy a ticket to see these films. Your kind of writing is becoming a lost art. There are no curse words and no sex.” Sitting in his office, the minister, Reb Dowling took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Now days, there’s so much violence in films. It’s a medium for the anti-hero. Your dialogue is sharp, funny. You don’t rely on dirty words to get a laugh.”

Paul nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I saw a film last week where a ten year old girl cussed like a sailor. The audience ate it up.”

 Pastor Dowling looked sad. “Unfortunately, it’s going to get worse I’m afraid. There’s no innocence in the movies anymore.” He looked up at Paul and gave him a bright smile. “But you keep up the good fight.”

The good fight, thought Paul. Was that what he was doing? He sat in apartment 110, typing furiously as the story poured out of his brain and on to the paper. Hmm, the good fight. Here he was, trying to break into an industry based on sin and temptation. It went against all Christian principles. But he was trying to go against the flow. He wanted to show producers that a good, clean script could make just as much money and entertain folks as the current fare of violence, sex and drugs. “Benji” wasn’t doing too badly at the box office.

How did he get here? Paul remembered the face and voice of Jesus as he lay on the cot back in Vietnam. Had it been a hallucination? Was it the drugs they were pumping into him, or his injuries that conjured up such a vision? Paul didn’t know. But in his heart, he felt it was right. God had spoken to him.

As soon as he was able, Paul was baptized by the company Chaplain. During his rehab at the VA, he studied the Bible with new fervor. Granger Christian College had given him the basics, but the long, dull hours of Bible study had not affected him. Now he poured over the verses with new eyes. And reading every word was a revelation.

When he got letters from Allan in far off Taiwan, he always lingered over the salutation, Keep Christ Near You. It had become his own mantra, but to him, it wasn’t a meaningless chant. He felt the presence of God now.

He wrote to his old friend from Louisiana, George Tobin, when he got out of the hospital. George was a struggling independent filmmaker in Colorado. After getting his degree in film at UCLA, George took his sixteen-millimeter camera, upgraded it, and moved to Boulder to make films on environmental subjects.

George advised him to go to Los Angeles. That’s where the action was for screenwriters. Was this what God wanted? Paul had the desire and talent to be a screenwriter. If it was what God wanted, it would happen. If not, then he would know. As soon as he got out of the VA Hospital, he headed west.

The one thing Vietnam did for Paul was to help him focus on what he wanted to do in life. He always liked writing with George and felt that writing was his calling. So far, he knew that just getting an agent to read his work was a major accomplishment. Paul got a job flipping burgers at Zaks, a local fast food chain. He didn’t need the money, because he got a very generous check every month from Uncle Sam. Nevertheless, he took all of the hours at Zaks that he could get. Being older than most of the teens who worked there, and single, he didn’t mind working weekends and holidays. Other than going to church, he spent his time dumping fries, pulling drinks, flipping burgers and writing screenplays.

He found a modest apartment at Palm Harbor and started a saving’s account at the bank across the street from Zaks. If he didn’t sell a screenplay, he wanted a financial war chest. And he would let the Lord lead him down the right path.

As he typed away, he heard the stirring voice in the apartment above him. He checked his watch. Yep, it was around 6:00. Every evening at six, the woman sang until about 6:45. When she did, all activity around the pool ceased. There was less chatter and typing from the open windows which included Paul. This had gone on every night for the last three months. Paul and his fellow tenants were treated to a medley of show tunes, torch songs and popular music. It was like having a radio show every evening.

The voice had a haunting quality as she sang a melancholy rendition of that Sinatra song. What was the name of it? “It Was A Very Good Year”. That was the title, he thought. And as her voice echoed through the complex, a smattering of applause could be heard by those down by the pool. Then the woman launched into, “I’m Gonna Wash that Man Right Out of My Hair”, from “South Pacific”. Paul found himself tapping the beat on his typewriter as he listened to the bouncy number.

His neighbor, an actor, said that the lady sang in nightclubs. She usually didn’t go to work until nine. One night, Paul saw her through his screen, walking down the stairs. She wore sunglasses and a scarf over her head. With her was a tall, black man who looked like a pimp. The actor told him that the man was her accompanist. If he was, he didn’t play that well. Of course the woman’s voice made his playing sound better. Why would she wear sunglasses at night, he wondered.

When the evening concert ended, Paul threw himself back into the writing. His goal was to finish twenty pages. He had an early shift at Zaks the next day, but writing was going to keep him up late. It didn’t matter. He had to finish the script.

Around 9:00, Paul took a break. He got his car keys and headed over to a nearby convenience store.

The Lucky Seven was his usual break stop. Tonight, would it be milk and cupcakes? Or cola and chips? He was grateful that he had those choices. Most of his life he hadn’t had enough money to worry about trivial things such as midnight snacks.

As he entered the store, he noticed that Habib wasn’t there. Habib was always there, because his father owned The Lucky Seven. In his stead was a young Mexican woman checking out a customer. Paul decided on cupcakes and milk. When he brought his goods up to the counter, the young woman looked up. She froze. For an instant, she looked terrified.

“Hi,” said Paul. Usually a smile and friendly “hi” put strangers at ease. The young lady kept her eyes on the milk carton and cupcakes.

 She couldn’t look at his face. “That will be a dollar, nine,” she said.

“Where’s Habib?” 

She kept her eyes down, putting the snacks into a sack. “He’s off tonight.”

“Oh, well tell him that Paul says hi.” 

She looked up quickly with a smile, then down again. “Si. I will tell him.” He picked up his sack and headed out.

Sometimes, Paul’s looks startled people. His right eye was a tinge lower than his left. Doctors said that more reconstructive surgery would fix that. It didn’t bother Paul. Nor did the long, red scar that went down the side of his head to his neck. Not long after he got back from the hospital, he was walking past a school where some kids pointed at him and yelled, “Frankenstein!” He gave them a lopsided smile and limped on, ignoring the taunts and delighted squeals of horror.

Paul didn’t care how he looked. He had seen the face of Jesus and that was enough. With therapy, he was able to diminish the limp and started jogging five miles a day. The scar, which began to look natural to him, had faded a bit. It still had an angry redness, but the doctor said that with time, it would shrink and fade to a pale white.

He worked on his screenplay until well after midnight.  It was as yet, untitled, but the story was flowing. He stretched his legs, ignoring the millions of tiny pinpricks in his muscles. He really needed to get to sleep. Rather than getting up and hopping into bed, he collapsed on his couch, enjoying the soft breeze coming through his open window.

About 3 a.m., he was awakened by two people arguing. He rubbed his eyes and peered out the window from his couch. The two figures were in front of his window shouting at each other. It was the woman and her piano player.

“You don’t need anyone you can’t use, baby!” yelled the man.

“Well I don’t need you Trevor. It’s bad enough when you’re all coked up, but I won’t take any more of your abuse!” Paul picked up the clock and looked at it. It was ten minutes after 3:00. He was going to have to get up in a couple of hours. The couple continued to argue. “Take a hike, Trevor! I’ll get somebody who doesn’t need to get high so he can play chopsticks!” 

The man cursed and got more in return from the vitriolic woman. Paul couldn’t tell what they were doing, but he heard a dull “thwap” and saw the woman stumble.

“See ya later princess,” sneered the man as he clumped away. The woman lay in front of his window.

 Paul got up and eased over to the screen. “Hello?” he said softly. The woman waved him off. “Are you okay?” He couldn’t see her face. She was lying there, moaning quietly. “Ma’am? Are you alright?”

The light bulb at his front door cast a dull, yellow glow over the figure. She turned over on her back, but he still couldn’t tell much. Paul started to get up and go to the door to help her, but suddenly she was up in a sitting position.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” she muttered. She sounded drunk as she hoisted herself up on her elbows and spoke to no one in particular. “Stupid bunhead…doesn’t even have any rhythm. They’re supposed to have rhythm.”

She stood up on trembling legs. Using the guardrail, she trudged up to her apartment. Paul yawned and stumbled over the coffee table in front of the couch. His knee caught the corner of the table and he felt the jolt awaken some old wounds.

“Ooh!”  He collapsed on the couch, clutching his knee. It started to throb and he lay there, trying to sleep. Just as he started to drift off, he heard his upstairs neighbor cursing and hammering out harsh, bitter notes on the piano. 

Then he heard another neighbor scream out his door. “Shut up! Shut up or I’ll call the police!” He heard his next door neighbor’s door creak open. “Give us a break, it’s freaking three o’ clock in the morning!” yelled the actor/neighbor. The piano gave one last discordant clamor. A loud thud shook his ceiling. She had either tossed a bowling ball on her floor or she was dead. Around 4:00, Paul finally fell asleep.

He got off shift around four p.m. the next afternoon. Working at Zaks Burgers made him feel like a grease trap. He enjoyed the systematic job of laying down the frozen patties on the hot grill and dressing the buns with the standard formula of mustard, two pickles, and one slice of tomato and lettuce. The job was automatic, he could lay down burgers and fries without thinking about it. This gave him time to think about his script. Once during a lunch rush, he cooked a hundred and ninety burgers as he thought out the plot of an action/adventure story.

When he got home from Zaks, all he wanted to do was shower the grease and smell off his body. The drain in his shower turned grey with the mixture of soapsuds and grease.

This was Paul’s favorite part of the day. Wrapping a thick, terry cloth robe around him, he enjoyed sitting in his living room and unwind with a brief Bible study. He usually read two or three chapters as he worked through a selected book. Lately he had been working through the gospels and he was in the book of John. His favorite verse was the popular 3:16. “For God so loved the world, he gave his only begotten son.” This was his third time through the entire Bible. Every time he read it, he discovered new insights and had a deeper appreciation for the words of Jesus.

He was on chapter four when he heard the knock at the door. Paul put his Bible down and pulled the robe tightly around him as he went to answer the knock. 

Standing in his doorway was a young woman with a deep, purple bruise on the side of her face. Other than that, she wore no makeup. She had red, shoulder length hair and wore a green work shirt and faded jeans. She showed no reaction to Paul’s scarred face and droopy eye.

 She noted his terry cloth robe. “Uh oh, it looks like I’ve disturbed you again.”

“I’m sorry?” Paul asked, not understanding.

“I think Trevor and I woke you up last night.”

 Then he realized who she was. “Oh, you’re the singer…yes, I mean, no, you didn’t disturb me. I mean, I’m always dressed like this.” He felt like a total idiot. I’m always dressed like this? He couldn’t find his tongue. Despite the purple bruise, he thought she was one of the most beautiful women he’d seen. “Uh, can I help you? Why don’t you come in? Let me get some jeans on. Would you like a cold drink?” He couldn’t shut up as he let the woman enter his apartment.

“No thanks. Unless you’ve got scotch.”

“No, I’m sorry. The strongest stuff I have is ginger ale.”

“Pass,” she said. 

He headed for the bathroom. “Have a seat. I’ll be back in jeans. I mean, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

In moments, he was back wearing jeans and a tee shirt. She was sitting on the couch, looking at the picture of  Allan and Theresa on his coffee table. The picture had Allan and his wife surrounded by several Taiwanese children, all beaming at the photographer. Written at the bottom of the picture was “Tsung Church, 1973, Keep Christ Near You.”

 She looked up. “You must really be into National Geographic stuff.”  She held up the picture.

 He nodded. “That’s a missionary friend of mine and his wife.”

“Are you a missionary too?”

“Sometimes I feel like it. You should see some of the forsaken places in this town.”

“You’re not a preacher man are you?”

“Not really. I work at Zaks.” He pointed at her bruise. “That has got to hurt.”

She pointed back at his scarred face. “Probably not as much as you. It looks like you got whopped upside the head by a taxi cab full of gorillas.” 

He smiled. “Something like that.”

“I’m Senta.”

“Hi.  I’m Paul.”

 She sighed. “Well, guess I need to get this over with. The manager threatened to throw me out if there were anymore complaints from the neighbors. I just came by to apologize about last night. Trevor and I were having a disagreement about how he should play “Blue Moon”. We didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“That’s okay, I needed the entertainment. My TV set’s busted.” He couldn’t get over her beauty. He thought her voice was exceptional, but her face was shining beauty. “You probably kept Randy up.”

“Who?”

 He threw a thumb at the wall, indicating his neighbor next door. “Randy, the actor. He was growling all night.” 

A look of recognition hit her face. “Oh, that wasn’t you who was telling me to shut up?”

“No, that was Randy and a few others.”

She stood up. “Guess I’ve got more people to see then. I don’t want to get kicked out of the complex again.” He didn’t want her to leave.

 Paul thought frantically what he could say to make her stay. “Ah, sure you don’t want a cold drink, Senta? How about an ice pack for your face?”

“You’re sweet, but no. I’ve got to find me a new accompanist. You don’t know anybody who plays the piano do you?”

 He shook his head. “You’re a tremendous singer, Senta. I’ll bet you know lots of musicians.”

“Lots, but they’re all jerks. I can play the piano, but I prefer someone else twinkling the ivories.” She started for the door. 

“You don’t know anybody huh,” he said. 

She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. She gave him a lopsided grin. Was it a smile of regret? “I’ve been through fifteen accompanists. I’m running out of people.” She turned the knob.

“Wait!” he blurted out. Then he blushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”

“What is it Paul?” She had called him by his name. Why did it make him feel like some lovesick fifteen-year-old?

“I might know somebody.”

 She put a hand on her hip. “Well…are you a musician?”

“No. But I could probably find someone for you.”

“What do you do Paul? I mean besides flipping burgers at Zaks. Are you an actor?”

“With a face like this? Sure. I play the Incredible Melting Man.”

“You should get some plastic surgery done. I’m sure they could fix your eye.” Paul wasn’t embarrassed, but he was a little taken back by her comment. Or really, the way she said it. It wasn’t sympathetic. It almost had a cruel edge to it.

“I’m a writer,” he said. “I’m working on a script right now.”

“I see. Well, you’ve got a face for a writer.” Ouch. As she headed out the door, she stopped. “Hey, you look like a nice guy. And I appreciate your help.” He nodded, feeling his tongue-tied up again. “And I’m a pretty good judge of people. Maybe you’re even a good writer.” He nodded again as she continued. “Something tells me you aren’t right for this town. It’ll chew you up and turn you into a human spitball. You’ve got to be able to handle pressure. You don’t seem like the type.” She gave him an easy smile. “I don’t mean anything bad by it. I’d just hate to see you get hurt.” 

Senta left and he heard her knock on Randy’s door.

CHAPTER EIGHT - CORY STILLING - Filming

The movie set of “The Lancer Ultimatum”-1971 Wayne Hampton looked through the lens. He backed away from the camera and nodded to his cinematographer.

“Looks good, Carlos.” Hampton clapped his hands. “Okay, first team, let’s go!”

The stand-in waited on the mark for Cory to take her place.

“It’s hot,” said the stand-in, referring to the lights.

 Cory patted her on the shoulder. “It’s always hot. Thanks, Linda.”

Cory took Linda’s place on the mark and looked directly into the camera. This was a reaction shot. Her character was watching a plane take off with a bomb planted on it. Wayne said he wanted her to show no emotion for a few moments, then give a tiny smile. It was a dynamite role and Cory was in her second week of filming. So far, she had not shot any key scenes, but Wayne Hampton wanted everyone to be comfortable with each other before they got into the heavy dialogue.

The assistant director was waving at the cast and crew on the set.

“Okay, settle. Everybody settle….” He pointed to continuity man. “…Slate in.” The man with the clapboard held it in front of the camera. On the board in yellow chalk was the scene and take numbers. 

“Speed!” cried the soundman.

“Speed!” confirmed the camera operator. 

The AD pointed to the continuity man. “Slate.” The man snapped the top part of the board, then moved out of camera range.

 Hampton quietly gave the command. “Action.”

Cory stood on her mark, looking just to the right of the camera. She imagined the plane taking off.  The bomb was on board. Mission accomplished. She gave the hint of a smile and held it.

“Cut!” said Hampton. “That’s a print.” Hampton looked over to the AD, who turned to the crew.

“Lunch break!” yelled the AD. Wayne motioned to Cory.

“Very good, Cory. Will you join me for lunch?”

“Sure,” said Cory as her assistant Gena, handed her a cold rag. 

“You’re already sweating. I can’t wait for the scene where you have to dash down the beach,” chuckled Gena.

“Those lights are hot. I don’t know how my stand-in takes it.” Cory and Gena walked to her dressing room.

“Did you want me to order lunch?”

 Cory shook her head. “No. Herr Director wants me to dine with him.”

“Lucky you,” said Gena. “I’ll bet the commissary doesn’t cater his meals.”

“I’ve heard he has smoked salmon sent in from Nero’s on Thursdays.”

“Sounds yummy.”

“Today’s Wednesday,” Cory said sourly with a smile. Yummy, she thought. Yes, it did sound good. Maybe Wayne would ask her to lunch tomorrow as well.

Hampton had a bungalow on the lot. It was his as long as he was filming “The Lancer Ultimatum”. Cory heard that it was once Errol Flynn’s home away from home. Of course the whole lot echoed with the ghosts of Gable, Harlow, Cooper and many others.

Cory picked at her caviar as Hampton entertained her with some of the Hollywood lore associated with the bungalow.

“Bart, the janitor, told me that Flynn, Gable and Ward Bond had a forty-eight hour poker game here once. Bond won the pot, which was around twelve thousand dollars. Pretty good for a couple of nights work in 1935.”

“That would be more like forty thousand today,” she said.

He was leading up to something and she was wary of the director. As soon as she entered the bungalow and saw the sumptuous feast of caviar and roast duck spread out, her antennae was up and operating. She didn’t think he was going to try and get funny with her, because at an earlier reading, he’d thrown his best lines at her and she made it pretty clear that the casting couch was not her favorite piece of furniture.

“Can I get you a drink?” Hampton had already gotten to the bar and was pouring himself a bourbon.

“Just water, thank you.”

He reached into the refrigerator and took out a bottled water. “Sure you don’t want a chaser?”  he joked.

 Cory laughed. “I think I’m drinking the chaser.”

 He brought the water to her and took a swig of his bourbon. “You’re the first person I’ve ever met over the age of twelve, who doesn’t drink.” 

Cory flashed him a smile. “I’m drinking, look.” She took a sip of water. 

Wayne Hampton looked at her curiously. “To each his own, I suppose.” He reached over and picked up his script off a chair. “The reason I wanted to see you was to discuss scene thirty two.” Here it came.

“Scene thirty two?”

“Yeah, let me find it.” As he flipped through the pages, Cory was trying to think of what happened in scene thirty-two. “Ah…here we are.” He read it to himself for a moment. Cory spread some margarine on a whole-wheat roll. Hampton continued. “This is the scene where Sharif is watching you through the binoculars.”

“The beach scene, right?”

“Right.”

“What about it, Wayne?”

 He hesitated, gathering his thoughts. “It says here that you are alone on the beach, putting sun tan lotion on your shoulder.”

“Right. And Omar is watching me through the binoculars.”

“Correct. We’ll have a camera zoom in on you in double circles like it’s his point of view. It has you in a black, one-piece bathing suit. I was talking to Bruno about maybe changing that.”

“Why?”

He looked like she’d asked him how to hem a dress wearing oven mitts. “Well…well for one thing, you look like Annette in “Beach Blanket Bingo” in the black suit. This isn’t a Disney picture.”

“I don’t think “Beach Blanket Bingo” was a Disney picture either.”

“Just consider what Bruno suggested.”

Bruno Slezak was one of Hollywood’s top costume designers. Hampton pulled out some sketches that he’d put in the back of the script. He laid them out on the table.

“We’ve got several good choices here.”

Every sketch showed a revealing bathing suit. Most of them were skimpy bikinis. The others were a lot less.

“I don’t feel comfortable with any of those Wayne.”

 He kept his eyes on the sketches. “Which ones do you like?” Cory gave an inward groan. This wasn’t going to be easy.

“I just said, I don’t like any of them.” 

Wayne picked up the sketch of a suit that left little to the imagination. “This one would really compliment your figure.” Nice try, pal.

“I’d feel naked in that, Wayne. I don’t want to wear any of those bikinis.”

 He shook his head. “Maybe we could compromise. We could shoot it both ways. First, we’ll shoot it with you wearing this one.” He gave a little shake of the sketch that he held in his hand. And then we’ll shoot it with you wearing your black one piece.”

“Then you’ll pick the best shot?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

Cory already knew which shot he was going to pick. “No,” she said. “I don’t like it. I want to wear the black bathing suit.”

“Look Cory, I know you don’t do nude scenes. I respect that. But this isn’t nudity.”

“It might as well be,” she said evenly. They locked eyes. After what seemed like a long time, Hampton’s gaze wavered.

“I don’t need your approval on this Cory. We want you to wear one of the costumes in these sketches. I’ll even let you make the choice.” For a brief moment, Cory thought about his offer, but her decision was already made.

“No.  I won’t do it Wayne. I’m sorry.”

Hampton slammed the sketch down on the table in frustration. The food and drinks shook on impact. He shot out of his chair and began to pace.

“You realize that I could replace you, Cory. We haven’t shot any major scenes yet. I could pick up that phone and get a hundred actresses who would give up their own mother to be in your position.” 

Cory stood up. “Well, I guess a mother somewhere is going to be daughterless. At least I know I won’t be leaving you in the lurch since you’ve got a lot of choices.”

“You’ll have trouble getting work with your attitude Cory. I tell you that as a friend.”

“Thanks friend. If that’s the worst of my worries, I’ll handle it.”

She walked past a fuming Hampton and out of the bungalow. As she made her way past some scenery being moved towards a sound stage, she heard Hampton screaming at her.

“Who do you think you are?! You think you’re better than everybody else?!” No, thought Cory…but I’m right.