CHAPTER THIRTEEN - The Robbery

This is Chapter 13. If you would like to read the story from the beginning, please click on the pink tabs above.

Trevor took a puff on the marijuana and handed it to Senta. “We’ll wait five more minutes, then we go.” Senta took the roach with a shaking hand. She was not in good shape. Trevor shifted his eyes over to her. “Don’t worry baby, I’m going to get you well.”

They were sitting in his Lincoln across from The Lucky Seven convenience store. Paul’s typewriter lay on the back seat. 

When Senta spoke, her voice wavered. “I didn’t think you were coming. I need some stuff now!”

“Calm down,” he said. “We’ll finish our business here, then we’ll go see Pink.” Pink. She thought of him as The Big Happy Pink. Pink always had something good for Senta.

The plan was simple. She would enter The Lucky Seven in a revealing dress. After she had the clerk’s attention, Trevor would come in waving his gun. All they needed was two hundred dollars. That would be enough to get her through the night. After they robbed The Lucky Seven, they’d go see Pink.  Trevor had promised.

Trevor drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Just a little longer babe. Hold on.”

Senta’s mind was a whirling storm. When Trevor didn’t show up, she went down to Paul’s apartment. Her idea was to get all the money she could. She planned on taking the typewriter to an all night pawnshop. Trevor finally showed and assured Senta that The Lucky Seven would have enough in the register to “get her well”…at least for another week.

Trevor peered at the lit up convenience store. Habib, the night clerk was alone at the counter, speaking to someone on the phone. “If that camel jockey would put the phone down, we could go in.”  Trevor said impatiently. “There aren’t any customers in there.”

“Well why don’t we?” She was fighting to keep the whine out of her voice.

“Because if I go in there and wave a gun in his face, he’ll alert his friend on the phone.” Senta bent over and grabbed her ankles. Her blood was speeding through her veins, screaming for a fix.

“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” she murmured desperately. Trevor checked his rearview mirror. The street was pretty empty.

“Okay babe, listen up. Go in there and do your thing. Maybe he’ll get off the phone and talk to you. Ask for directions to Disneyland or something. I’ll follow you in. As soon as he hangs up, we’ll do it.”

Senta didn’t wait a second. She jerked the door open and hustled across the street. Trevor admired her outfit, noting she had the perfect touch. He told her to dress like she did in Las Vegas when she was making money as a prostitute.

Habib was talking to his brother when the scantily clad woman walked in. She was wearing sunglasses, but even though it was night, it was not an odd sight in southern California.

She looked around the store and picked up a jar of pickles. Habib noticed that her hand was shaking. It looked like she was wearing a blond wig and she looked vaguely familiar to him. For some reason, he thought of his friend, Paul. Had he seen Paul with her? No. Probably not. Paul didn’t date girls who looked like this. Paul didn’t date at all as far as he knew. This was a wild one and she was walking down the aisle towards him.

“Abuel, I will call you back. I have a customer.” He hung up. “Yes ma’am, can I help you?” As she leaned across the counter, Habib could not control where his eyes went. She was giving him a free show.

“Yes, I was wondering. Am I near The Aces Club?”

“I believe so, ma’am.” He reached under the counter to get a local map. His hand brushed the .38 as he found the map. He pulled the map out from under the counter. “I’ll show you how to get there.” Habib noticed the tall, black man enter. The man didn’t look towards the counter, but walked down the back aisle where the freezer was.

Trevor used the reflection of the glass door in the cold drink section to watch the clerk. The clerk’s attention was totally on Senta and the map. Trevor pulled the 357 magnum from his jacket and turned towards the counter.

“So I take Olympic Boulevard?” she asked.

“No ma’am, the best way to get there is to take Santa Monica to Fairfax.” Habib’s finger traced the faster route on the map. Trevor was halfway down the aisle, with the gun to his side.

“Wouldn’t it be better if I went down Wilshire?” Habib couldn’t understand why this lost lady was arguing with him about the directions. He looked up to see the man approaching the counter. Just as Trevor was about to raise his gun, a police car pulled up to the store.

The flight from Dallas touched down at LAX just after 11 p.m. Cory had fallen asleep twenty minutes before landing, only to be politely told by the attendant to buckle her seat belt and put her seat in an upright position. With sleepy eyes, she looked out at the terminal. Home again, home again, jiggity jig, she thought.

“Ms. Stilling, it was a pleasure.” Mr. Holland, the electronics salesman had sat by her and was ecstatic that he got to sit by a “movie star” as he called her. After his enthusiasm had worn down, Cory found out about his wife, Rowena, his kids, Matt and Tilly and their red brick home in Dana Point. Most people would have been bored by Mr. Holland’s recitations, but not Cory. She found so many people interesting. She admired his steady, settled life. It sounded like something right up her alley. She asked Holland questions about the life of a salesman. She was amazed at his knowledge on a number of subjects.

“Part of the tools of my trade is being able to discuss books, movies, TV shows, and the latest rock group,” laughed Holland. “Knowing the best places to eat is a must.”

Flying over El Paso, she autographed an in-flight magazine for Holland and posed while the attendant took her picture with him. Leaving New Mexico air space, Holland finally realized he had dominated her time and apologized.

“Don’t worry about it Hal. I really think you and Rowena need to add that extra room. A swimming pool will cost you more in the long run.”

“You really sound like you’re interested Ms. Stilling. Sometimes people get that glassy look in their eyes when I go on.”

“I’m fascinated how people operate and relate to others.” She put her hand to her mouth. “I must sound like a psychiatrist.”

“I’d pay your hourly rate,” he laughed.

They talked a bit more. She was getting drowsy, but she couldn’t sleep. Eventually, even Holland drifted off.  Cory’s mind wandered to the Rico shoot in Dallas and to Ron.

When they wrapped the Rico’s spot, Cory’s assistant reserved an early flight. Then Ron came to see her when she was having her make up removed. “Good job, movie star.”

“Thanks, Ron.”

“Listen, a few of us are going to meet at a great pizza spot on Mockingbird. How would you like to join us?” As she hesitated, he added, “It’s sort of a cast party.”

“But I was the cast.”

“Okay then, it’s a party for you.” 

Cory nodded. “How can I resist when the director personally invites me to a party in my honor?”

The Texana Pizzeria was noisy and crowded. Ron’s party included the copywriter of the Rico spot, the producer, the cinematographer, the client, the account executive, Marcia, her assistant and of course, Cory. They found a table near the back and ordered five large pizzas. The client ordered beer for everyone. Cory had a pitcher of soda and shared it with Marcia and Ron. She liked the idea that he wasn’t drinking the beer.

The pizza took longer than expected, so the copywriter of the Rico’s spot got up on a staging area and played the piano. People began to get up and dance. Ron and Cory were left at the table. He scooted his stool closer to her so they could hear each other over the rowdy din.

“Glenn-Rezell liked my demo reel,” said Ron. “They have a series of spots they’d like for me to direct for the Southern California Tourist Commission.”

“They’re a pretty big ad agency, aren’t they?”

“Oh yeah. Their clients throw a lot of money in these TV spots. If I do that series, I’ll be spending a lot of time in your neck of the woods.”

“We’ll just have to get together,” she said.

As he leaned in, she smelled a hint of magnolia. Even in the heat, he seemed fresh, while Cory was ready for a cool bath. He was saying something to her. She cupped a hand over her ear. “What’s that?”  she asked.

“I said, I would like that.”

After the pizza, Ron drove her to DFW. She talked about her preacher father and family in Minnesota. He told her about how he wanted to be an engineer, but flunked out of college.

“I spent time in the Air Force Reserve, and through a friend, I got a job as a gaffer for a TV production company.”

“And you became a great director within a month,” she said. 

Ron shook his head. “Not that easy. It was five years before I got my chance. I was a cinematographer for a couple of years and got my break on a local car dealership spot. The client liked my work and I’ve never looked back.”

By the time Cory met Mr. Holland on the flight back, she was tired, but happy. She liked the idea of seeing Ron in L.A.

The police car drove up to The Lucky Seven so quickly, Trevor could only think that the clerk must have suspected something and tripped a silent alarm. What Trevor didn’t know was, one of the cops had a killer headache and was anxious to get some aspirin.

Habib didn’t see the police car drive up, but he did see Trevor raise his gun. He frantically felt for the .38 under the counter.

Senta saw Habib’s eyes go wide and knew that Trevor had pulled his gun. She dropped to her knees to get out of the line of fire.

In a panic, Trevor shot at the cop who was getting out from the passenger’s side. That’s when the fireworks began.

Senta huddled against the counter, holding her ears. All she wanted was to get the money and go see Pink. Pink had the stuff. Pink was who she needed to see.

Habib found his pistol and pulled it from behind the counter. Without aiming, he fired at Trevor, but all he hit was a hanging beer sign. He fired again and some mayonnaise jars exploded to Trevor’s left.

Trevor got off three shots at the police, before he realized the clerk was shooting at him. As he turned his gun at the clerk, he felt an invisible baseball bat pound him in the chest. His feet gave way and he fell backwards into a potato chip display. The cops were using the car doors as cover. Their guns were smoking. Trevor thought he heard Senta screaming his name before he fell into darkness and silence.

CHAPTER TWELVE - Struggling Writer

This is Chapter 12. If you would like to read the story from the beginning, please click on the pink tabs above.

CHAPTER TWELVE - Struggling Writer

The party upstairs had gotten louder. Paul was typing away on his final draft of which he now called, “Star Trapper”. It was a science fiction piece that was an allegory of the crusades. The script had lots of special effects, which could make dry reading, but he also thought that his dialogue was crisp and believable.

Someone laughed, which turned to a coughing fit. Marijuana smoke was drifting into his window. Paul ignored it and continued typing. Since she’d lost her job at the club, Senta had become the Hostess of Santa Monica. It seemed like there was a party every night.

After his embarrassing scene with Senta, she had cooled to him considerably. Every once in a while, when she and Zeke finished rehearsing, they would come downstairs and persuade him to take them out for a burger. Of course Zeke usually paid. Sometimes Paul paid.  Senta never paid.

If he needed to borrow the proverbial cup of sugar, or anything else, Senta obliged cheerfully.  Sometimes they’d go for a drive and she would ask him about his writing and he asked her about her singing. That was as far as the relationship went. He thought it was probably for the best, but her beauty haunted him. He could not get past it.

When she lost her job for being too drugged up to sing, Senta didn’t need Zeke anymore. Zeke seemed to always have an excuse to see her. And most of the time, Zeke ended up at Paul’s place, sharing a glass of tea.

They made an unusual threesome. One night, Paul invited Senta and Zeke over to play “Monopoly”.  Zeke had professed a love for the game, so he invited her to bring her game board over. Senta called the idea corny, but went along with it anyway. The evening had been very enjoyable, and Paul felt a bond to both women. He didn’t see the special look that Zeke gave him. He only had eyes for Senta.

“Anybody home?” Paul looked up from his script to see Senta standing in his doorway. “Sorry to bug you, but I need a couple of ice trays,” she said.

“Sure, come on in. I’ll get you some.” Senta walked over to the coffee table that held his typewriter and writing materials while he went to the refrigerator.

“Are you finished with the script yet?”

“Almost. Right now I’m stuck on the planet Glafar.” She saw his wallet and car keys on a table by the couch. As he struggled unsticking the ice trays from the freezer, she quickly rifled through the wallet and took a ten-dollar bill. In the past few months, she’d stolen about eighty dollars from him. A five here, a ten there, she didn’t think he’d notice. He always had lots of bills squirreled away in the cheap, imitation-leather billfold. She palmed the money as he brought her the trays.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks Paul. I’d invite you up, but I know you wouldn’t have a lot of fun with all those sinners.”

“Are you kidding? I could go up there and maybe save a few souls.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Yeah, Jesus was often seen in the presence of sinners.” 

She gave him a blank stare, then turned. “See ya later.” She didn’t see the hurt expression on Paul’s face.

As he got back to the planet Glafar, Paul felt energized about “Star Trapper”. It was his third script since he’d moved to Los Angeles, but it was by far his best. And he knew he was getting better as a writer. The other two scripts had collected close to a hundred rejection slips. He was able to get an independent producer to look at his first effort, “Tides of Change”. It was a Vietnam War story set in the late 60’s. The producer said that it was well written, but nobody was buying Vietnam War scripts. 

Paul was pretty sure that his first two scripts were no better than rough drafts. His second script, “Skyline” was about an inner city youth who fights his way out of the ghetto to a responsible position on Wall Street. After it got six or seven rejections, he showed it to Senta.

“I’m not a writer Paul, but you know what the problem with this script is?” She was on his couch with the script in her lap. He peered at it over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Your dialogue. These street kids don’t talk like this.” She pointed to a line of dialogue. “You need to sprinkle their speech with profanity. In fact, you need a gusher of profanity. Your main thug here talks like Donny Osmond.”

 He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see how dirty words will sell a script.”

 She sighed loudly. “Look, I know you don’t want to go to hell and all, but if you want to get produced, you need to write like real people talk. You could have gotten away with this ten years ago, but movies have caught up with real life.”

 Paul shook his head. He could see her point, but could not admit that she was right. “The story is good enough without that,” he said stubbornly.

Senta put the script on the coffee table and stood up. “You’re so innocent. It’s like you were born yesterday.” She headed for the door and turned. “You know Paul, I haven’t had an easy life. I’ve had to scratch for a living. I never had money like you. Have you ever heard that an artist must suffer for his art? It’s obvious you’ve had a very sheltered life, protected from its cruelties. I’m not saying that you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, but you’ve had it soft, I can tell.” She folded her arms and gave him a superior smirk. “Maybe you should give up this God thing and jump into life with both feet. Have some dangerous adventures like taking a girl to bed, or getting drunk at a biker bar.” She put her hands on her hips. “It’ll make you a better writer, believe me.”

Paul considered her sermon. How could he tell her about being so poor? Growing up, he considered Goodwill a luxury department store.  It would do no good to tell her about Vietnam or how even today, as he drove down the streets of Santa Monica, he automatically looked up at the trees, watching for snipers.

Later as he worked on his sci-fi script, Paul thought perhaps she was right. Maybe his scripts were too goody-goody. Maybe he should add a little sex, a little curse word here and there. Of course he’d just finished a battle scene on Glafar, of Biblical proportions. His main villain, Tracto, was evil incarnate. And the curse words he used were in Glafarian. Maybe he could do it…add some real dialogue. No. He couldn’t compromise his art…his Christian art.

He didn’t really need a lot of money. He always kept at least a hundred dollars in ones, fives and tens in his wallet. It made him feel like Howard Hughes, but Paul had gone on for so long without a lot, he didn’t need a lot. He didn’t even mind it when Senta stole from him. He did mind that she probably used it for drugs. He would have to stop that. If he could just get her to see things his way. No, not his way. God’s way.

Ed Rosnowsky climbed up the ladder and set the blue paint can on the top rung. Wiping his brow, he called down to his daughter, who was stirring some white paint.

“Zeke, when you finish the garage door, go on home. I can clean up here.”

“Okay Dad.” As she stirred, she hummed “Softly and Tenderly”, but her mind wasn’t on the hymn. “Hey Dad, I’m asking my friend Paul over for dinner tonight. Would you like to come?”

“I’ve made you give up your weekend to help me. I figured you’d want to get a vacation from all this.” 

She smiled. “Ah Dad, I don’t mind helping you on these big jobs.”

 He applied an even stroke of blue on the eave, then dipped the tip of the brush back into the can. “Since when do you invite me on your dates?”

“This isn’t a date. Paul is just a friend.”

“Is this another accountant?”

“No sir. He’s a writer, or trying to be. He works at Zaks.”

“Is he a manager?”

“No, but he’s the chief grill master.”

Ed quietly went about his work. This Paul character didn’t sound like a real good bet.  Zeke was a levelheaded girl. Girl.  Zeke was an adult. She could make her own choices, but he still worried about her. “How old is he?”

“Dad, I’m not in high school anymore. If you must know, he’s twenty four.” Twenty-four years old and he worked in a hamburger joint.

“Does he go to church?”

“He goes to the City of Angels.”

“That’s good. Why don’t you invite him to services tomorrow?”

“Maybe I will.”  Zeke carried her paint over to the garage. She knew what her father was thinking. “Paul is just a friend, Dad. In fact, he’s slobbering over some night club singer.” A night club singer. Great.  What did this Paul want of his child? Ed remained silent as he painted. If only Sarah had lived. She died on Zeke’s tenth birthday. It had to be on that day. The cancer had been relentless. Sarah had tried so hard to hold on, to make it past her daughter’s birthday.

“I don’t want her to have this sort of memory on a day she should be happy.” Sarah told Ed. But at noon on that day, Ed and Zeke were bringing Sarah a piece of birthday cake and they found her half off the bed, unconscious. She was pronounced dead an hour later.

For Zeke’s sake, he attempted to re-marry. His daughter needed a mother, but after Sarah, he couldn’t find anyone else. He couldn’t forget his lovely wife. Zeke encouraged him to date for his own sake.

“You need to get out Dad. Mother would want you to,” said the precocious ten-year-old.

It seemed that Zeke adjusted better than he did. His daughter was not fragile. She was an independent sort, but he still worried about her. He hoped she would get good grades. He hoped she would be safe. He hoped she would choose the right college. He hoped she would marry the right man. He hoped she would have healthy children. He hoped. He hoped for a lot of things. He prayed to God that he had done right by her. So far, so good. She had turned out to be okay, even if she had a lot of tomboy in her.

This Paul person worried him. Was he some deadbeat writer? Flipping burgers wasn’t a promising career. And no matter what Zeke said, Ed knew his daughter. She was in love with the guy.

Trevor was late. Senta tamped out her cigarette and looked out the window. Where was the creep? She felt the tremors race up and down her body. She needed a fix. Her entire body was screaming for relief. It felt like her limbs were becoming unglued. Her muscles itched and felt like mush.

Maybe she could skip down to Paul’s apartment and get some money. He was at Zaks, but he always kept money in a cigar box in his bedroom. She knew this by doing a quick search while he was in the shower. He had invited her and Zeke over for a game of “Monopoly”. How lame. But it got her inside his apartment and she convinced the two holy rollers that she actually enjoyed playing the game.

Where was Trevor? Senta lit another cigarette and grabbed a letter opener. She trotted down the steps to Paul’s apartment. She took the letter opener and used her body to shield her actions. It took a few moments, but she was able to jimmy the lock.

Zaks was a beehive on Friday night. Date night. Let’s grab a burger. Paul was doing double duty, because Jesse called in sick. Yeah, Jesse was sick alright. Every Friday night, teens that worked in burger joints got sick all over America. Paul lowered a basket of fries into the hot grease and turned to the prep table to dress hamburger buns. Brenda was pulling drinks and taking counter orders while Steve worked the drive through window.

“I need three ham, one no mayo!” shouted Brenda.

“Where’s Jesse?” asked Steve.

“He called in sick,” she replied. 

Steve chuckled. “He must have a hot date tonight.” Brenda and Paul laughed too. They were too busy to take a breath, but it was still funny. They knew that Jesse would show up hail and hearty on Monday afternoon after school.

“Kids,” Paul said derisively, shaking his head. He smiled as he pulled ten patties off the grill and laid down twenty more.

The dinner rush was still going strong and he had to keep up. It didn’t take much to concentrate. Like a machine, he automatically went to the freezer and pulled out frozen fries, tacos and onion rings. He dropped those in their respective fryers and unwrapped twenty more buns to go with the patties. He then turned back to the grill and sprinkled salt and pepper on the patties and tossed tiny pieces of chipped onions on them before flipping them.

All the while, he was thinking of a new ending to “Star Trapper”. “I could have the planet explode after they crucify the Rangleans,” he said aloud.

“What’s that?” asked Brenda. 

Steve pointed a thumb at Paul. “Hemingway is working on his masterpiece.”  Steve was an actor. He and Paul had vowed that if one of them got into a position to help the other, they would. “If you get a screenplay produced, you can recommend me for a role.” 

Paul spoke over his shoulder back at Steve. “Good deal. And if you get a part in a film, you can show my script to the director or star.”

“I will be the star,” Steve countered. They shook on it over frying tacos.

As Zaks got noisier with customers, the jukebox blared out “Bad Leroy Brown”. Paul felt a certain serenity among the happy chaos. He was at peace with himself and thanked God for His blessings. I might never be produced. I might just end up managing Zaks, thought Paul. Wherever God sent him, he was ready.

Around eleven ‘o clock, things began to slow down. There were few customers in the dining area. Brenda was straightening and re-stocking the paper products while Steve handled the drive through window and front counter. Paul changed the grease in the fryers and cleaned the shake machine. The graveyard shift would scrub the grill and mop the floor. He was ready to get home and write the new ending of his script.

The courtyard in Palm Harbor was quiet as he walked under the yellow lamps in front of each apartment. Senta’s apartment looked dark. He wondered where she was. As he reached for his key, he noticed that the door was ajar. Uh oh. He didn’t want to surprise a burglar.

Was there someone inside? He cautiously opened the door, keeping his body tense and ready to spring. Every fiber in his body was on red alert. The lamp in the living room was on just as he had left it. The apartment looked undisturbed. Paul slowly crept into the bedroom, his eyes and ears wide open. He hadn’t felt this tense since he’d been in the jungle.

He peered down the dark hallway. The bedroom and bathroom looked clear. There was no vandalism. He looked into the cigar box. There were pennies, liquid paper and a couple of tiny notepads. He began to relax. Maybe it was just some kid who had gotten scared off before he could take anything of value. Then he got to the bottom of his cigar box. The fifty dollars that had been in it was missing. He retraced his steps back to the living room.

Everything still looked intact. He didn’t really have anything worth stealing. His Bible lay on the bar. It looked untouched. Then he saw the coffee table. His typewriter was gone.

CHAPTER ELEVEN - Breaking Up

This is Chapter 11. If you would like to read the story from the beginning, please click on the pink tabs above.

“For you yourselves know well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night.”

1^st Thes. 5:2

A coffee shop off Hollywood Boulevard, 1974. Their voices were low, but intense. The waitress had cleaned up the dishes and taken the generous two-dollar tip that Judd had left an hour ago.

“I think you’re wrong, I think you’re seriously wrong, Judd,” said Goldie. While her skin and features were soft, her almond eyes were quiet and determined.

 Judd shook his head slowly. “That’s just the way I feel.”

Goldie took a sip of coffee and looked out on to the street. The breakfast crowd was long gone and the early lunch people were coming in.

After spending the last few months seeing each other, they had met at their favorite spot so they could break up. Judd was a wonderful guy, Goldie thought. Smart, funny, a total gentleman and handsome to boot. But they were back to the old conversation and all the hashing out and rehashing wouldn’t change Goldie’s mind. Judd was just as stubborn. He put his palms on the table and leaned towards her. 

“Look Goldie, you’re a great girl.”

“Woman,” she corrected him.

 He gave her one of those bright smiles and her heart lurched. “Woman,” he said softly. “And I’d love to marry you.” This was his third proposal in as many months. “And I know you want to marry me,” he added. Goldie gave an imperceptible nod. He continued. “But this God thing is going to be between us our whole lives. I don’t mind you believing whatever you want.”

“Thank you,” she said curtly.

“I just can’t waste my time on something I don’t believe in.”

 She reached across the table and took his hand. “I’ve told you about Jesus. I don’t understand how you can’t believe. Look around you, Judd. God is everywhere.”

“Listen Goldie, I went to church when I was a kid. But in college, I kept my mind open. I met lots of intelligent people…professors, fellow students, scholars of science and philosophy. I can’t argue with the logic of science.”

Goldie had lost him. Judd’s biggest problem wasn’t his education. He just didn’t depend on God. That’s what he had told her. He depended on no one but himself.

“God didn’t give me this body,” he said. “I worked for it. I sculpted it. I lifted weights, I ran, I did all I could to be the best athlete possible. And it’s paid off into a great career. Now you gave me a Bible to read, but I could give you twenty or thirty books that contradict everything in the Old Testament alone.” Goldie stared down at the table. He grasped her hand. “Don’t worry Goldie, I’m not going to send a van of books over to your place. I know it wouldn’t do any good.”

“You’re right, Judd. I guess we’re going to have to agree to disagree.”

“So I guess that’s it.”

“I guess,” she said wistfully. He put another dollar on the table and started to get up. Goldie kept hold of his hand. “Judd, I don’t want to end it like this.”

“All things come to an end, Sweetheart.”

“Yes, but I still want to keep seeing you…as a friend.”

“You just want to save me, girl. I mean, woman.” 

She fought back the tears. She really loved this man. If she couldn’t marry him, she could at least save his soul. “You bet I will. I don’t give up easy.”

 He reached over and pecked her on the cheek. “You are so beautiful.”

“So are you,” she said.

“I’m leaving for the Bahamas next week. It’s a two-month shoot. Maybe we can get together when I get back…as friends.” Goldie nodded. She couldn’t trust herself to speak, with the lump growing in her throat. Judd gave one last caress to her cheek and walked out. Goldie sat there, staring into her coffee.  Then she got up and rushed over to the exit.

Judd was half a block away and she called out, “I’ll pray for you!” He turned and waved, then disappeared around a corner.

“The Angry Sea” was described by the writer as a “disaster movie with a heart”. The story was about people on an oilrig during a hurricane, but a lot of the film was in flashbacks about the characters’ lives.

The all-star cast was registered at “The Colony”, which took up most of the small island, Emerald Cay. Sidney Poitier played the chief engineer, and Judd was to handle all of his stunts. The cast included Josh Smythe, Michael Caine, Gene Hackman, Elizabeth Taylor, James Caan, Raquel Welch, Jane Fonda, and James Stewart as the oil company president. Josh Smythe played the rebel roustabout who questions Poitier’s authority.

Like all of his roles, Josh put a lot of research into his part. After a few weeks of study, he had a working knowledge of oil rigs and tanker transports. He spent a month with a field crew in Texas, working with the equipment and the men. He worked all shifts and performed every job that the union would allow.  Most of it was apprentice work, but Josh asked a hundred times the questions that any apprentice would ask. Then Josh spent two more weeks on a working rig off the coast of Galveston.

On a lazy Sunday of rest, Josh strolled around The Colony, looking for Judd. Josh found the stuntman down by the pool, watching the girls. “Hey Judd, how’s it going?”

 Judd patted the red cloth lounge chair next to him. “Have a seat, my man.” Judd nodded to a comely young woman on the diving board. “What do you think?”

“She looks like Diana.” 

Judd gave him a sharp look. There was only one Diana in Hollywood. “Diana Ross? You know Diana Ross?”

“She had a cameo in a film I did two years ago. She didn’t sing though.”

“I’ve been trying to meet her for years. She is fine.” They lolled by the pool, soaking in the sun and watching the girls.

“I hear you’re doing a jump tomorrow,” said Josh.

“Yep. A hundred and twenty feet, straight into the water.”

“You’re not going to jump off the top?”

 Judd laughed. “I don’t think a 120 foot drop off a Hollywood sized oil rig is advisable. Poitier’s character will jump off the top, but I’m only jumping from the lower level. They’ll make it look like I jumped the entire height.”

 Josh was quiet for a moment. “So you’re going to jump into a calm sea on a sunny day.”

“Sure.”

“But the script says it’s a stormy night.”

“I wanted to do it at night, but Solomon nixed it. Besides, the weather never cooperates. We’ll let the special effects guys churn up the sea and darken the sky.”

“Blow up a hurricane,” Josh said.

“Exactly. And a lot of that will be in the studio where we can control it.”

“So you take a lot of precautions, huh?”

“It’s not a particularly dangerous gag, but it’s potentially dangerous. We treat every stunt seriously…even a prat fall or a pie in the face.” Josh nodded thoughtfully. Judd couldn’t read his eyes behind the sunglasses that Josh was wearing.

“And you’ll have some divers down there when you hit the water?”

“Absolutely,” Judd replied.

“So it’s pretty safe.”

 Now Judd realized what the actor was getting at. “Hey, no man. Don’t even think about it.”

“What?” Josh asked innocently.

“You don’t jump. You are the star. Mr. Cox wouldn’t allow it. I wouldn’t allow it.”

“Come on Judd. You could get me on that rig. My character jumps in to save Poitier.”

 Judd took off his own sunglasses and stared at Josh. “You are out of your mind. And we’re going to shoot Toby’s jump on a different day.” Toby was Josh’s stuntman.

“Yeah, but if the cameras are rolling and I was to jump right after you…”

“You’d kill us both. Even if I could get you up there instead of Toby, it would be a career killer for you, Toby and me.”

“I’m a good swimmer.” 

Judd couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Good swimmer? When you hit the water, swimming is the last of your worries. Do you think your body could take the impact? You can’t swim unconscious…or with a broken back.”

“What if I paid you?”

“Not for a billion bucks. Not for a billion bucks and a date with Diana Ross. The best case scenario is, you survive the jump and I lose my job. Worst case, you die and I lose my job.” 

Josh shrugged and got up. “I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask. If you change your mind, call my room.”

“Don’t worry buddy, no one’s changing his mind.”

“Hang loose,” said Josh as he headed for the wet bar.

Judd made a mental note to alert Solomon and Cox. That crazy actor just might try it.

Fighting the Dallas heat, Cory found a shady spot and placed the studio chair under the ponderous oak. Her assistant brought her a wet rag and bottled water. 

“Cory are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in the trailer?” 

Cory waved her off. “It’s too far. I’d rather just cook here.”

“I’ll let you know when they’re set up.”

“Thanks Marcia.”

The assistant hurried back over the hill where they were shooting the Rico’s Corn Chips commercial. Cory put the wet rag over her face. Rather than drinking the water, she held the chilled bottle against her neck. Cicadas hummed and chirped from a field nearby, and there was the distant sound of an AD on a bullhorn.

“Move the balloon to the right!” she heard from down the hill.

The corn chip spot featured a hot air balloon. Cory played a runaway princess who escapes into the land of Rico’s Corn Chips. She took off the fake diamond tiara and twirled it around her finger.

Cory felt very contented. Her movie career had stalled when she balked at wearing Wayne Hampton’s revealing bathing suit. A young actress named Susan Sarandon had taken her place and the buzz was, Sarandon was getting a lot more work from that role.

Good going Susan, thought Cory. And she meant it. Cory did not feel jealousy or begrudge others of their successes. She was extremely happy doing TV commercials and an occasional sit-com appearance. Those were the kind of gigs where she didn’t have to worry about nude scenes or screaming bad words on camera. And the money was great. She just wished she could find someone to share it with.

Cory invested her money wisely. While she continued to live modestly, donating a generous percentage of her earnings to various churches and the family back in Minnesota, she had plenty of money to sustain her if she lived to be a healthy 120. Perhaps I could go home to Minnesota. Or maybe I could go into mission work? Maybe I’ll meet someone with a like mind.

She had plenty of dates with men from her church, but there was no spark in those relationships. They were more like brothers. Maybe I’m too choosy. Maybe I’m off my nut. She shook her head, becoming dizzy with indecision.

The coolness of the rag was draining away. She gently wiped her face and closed her eyes. As soon as she got back to L.A., she was going to talk to Reb Dowling or Minister Wooley about mission work. If she was going to labor in the heat of Dallas in August, she might as well labor in equatorial Africa, or South America, or the Philippines.

“Hello beautiful.”

Cory opened her eyes and saw Ron, the director standing over her.

“How long have you been standing there, Ron?”

“Not long enough. We’re ready.” He offered his hand and pulled her out of the chair. “Put your crown back on princess, we’re going to Rico Corn Chip Land.”

“Oh, goody.” As they headed back to the set, he kept his hand in hers. “You didn’t have to come get me Ron.”

“I enjoy the walk.”

“Yes, I’ve always enjoyed walking across a hot griddle.” 

He wiped the back of his neck with a tan rag. “You were worth the walk.”

Ever since he’d cast her, Ron was a constant flirt. He was cute and never tried anything. She really liked him and admired his work. His commercials were like mini-movies. They had a big screen look to them.

At first, Cory thought he was trying to butter her up. As a commercial director based in Dallas, a semi-famous actress could be a stepping stone to a career in feature films. That’s why she liked the guys at church. The closest they came to show biz ambition was singing in the choir.

After a short rehearsal and dinner at a swanky Dallas restaurant, Cory decided that Ron was just a lovable flirt.

“So what have you got after this?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m busy for the next three months. I’ve got a Texas Instruments Christmas campaign…that’s about five or six commercials, the client’s still deciding on how many. After that, I go out to L.A. to shoot a Volkswagen spot for a Chicago agency.”

Although Ron lived in Dallas, he got a lot of work from agencies in Chicago, New York, San Francisco, all of the major players. He did a lot of shooting in Los Angeles, but most of his work was international. Her hand was beginning to sweat, but she liked his firm grip.

“That’s why I like you Cory. You really seem interested in people.”

“I’m a people-person.”

“The Volkswagen stuff will be shot in Malibu. Maybe we can get together when I get out there.” His face was red from the heat. She didn’t think Ron was the shy type. And his eyes were serious.

“Give me a call Ron. There’s a chance I’ll be in Minnesota, though.” At thirty-five, Ron’s face was turning craggy before it’s time. Now the wrinkles lifted into an embarrassed smile as he tried to hide the disappointment in his voice.

“I understand. Hey, I might be in Alaska,” he laughed. 

Cory’s face was serious. “Who knows where I’ll be. Minnesota. Maybe equatorial Africa.”

“I’ll say this for you, you’re flexible.” Both their hands were sweaty. 

She let go and let her palm breath, then she took his hand again. “Before we wrap tomorrow, I’ll give you my Minnesota phone number in case we miss each other.”

As they topped the hill, he gestured to the huge, red and blue hot air balloon with the Rico logo.

“Behold me lady. Thy royal air ship awaits!”