Finger bought out the hotel’s main restaurant for the evening and filled it with media people and the top-level crew of “The Starcrossed.” No working types allowed, Gabriel grumbled to himself. No painters or electricians or carpenters. Just us white-collar folks. Not even Bill Oxnard had been invited, although Gabriel knew he was in Toronto for the weekend.
Finger sat at the head table, flanked by Rita Yearling on one side and the rugged-looking, erstwhile star of the show on the other. Gabriel had been placed halfway across the big dining room, as far removed from Gregory Earnest as possible, and seated at a table of what passed for writers. They were a grubby lot. The high schoolers weren’t allowed to stay up late or drink alcoholic beverages (and marijuana was still illegal in Canada), so they hadn’t been invited. Gabriel sat amid a motley crew of semiretired engineers who had always wanted to write sci-fi, copyboys and reporters from the area news media who saw their futures in dramaturgy, and one transplanted Yank who had exiled himself to Canada milennia ago and could outwrite the entire staff, when he wasn’t outdrinking them.
Something about Finger’s male “discovery” was bothering Gabriel. His face looked vaguely familiar. Gabriel spent the entire dinner—of rubber chicken and plastic peas—trying to figure out where he had seen the man before. A bit player in some TV series? An announcer? One of the gay blades who’re always hanging around the studios and offices? Maybe a dancer?
None of them seemed to click.
Then, as coffee and joints were passed around by the well-beyond-retirement-age waiters, Finger got to his feet.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here this evening.”
Everyone roared with laughter. Except Gabriel, who clutched his stomach and tried to keep from shrieking.
“Even though I’ve been staying in sunny Southern California....” More canned laughter from the throats of Finger’s lackeys. “...I’ve been keeping a close eye on your work up here. ‘The Starcrossed’ is an important property for Titanic and even though we’re working with an extremely tight budget...” Who’s paying for this bash tonight? Gabriel wondered. “...I can assure you that Titanic is doing everything possible to make this show a success.”
Loud applause. Even the media people clapped. Local flaks, Gabriel knew. They want the show to succeed, too.
Finger cocked his head in Gabriel’s direction, like Cary Grant sizing up Katharine Hepburn. “I know we’ve had some troubles in the script department, but I think that’s all been ironed out satisfactorily.” Maybe, Gabriel answered silently.
“And thanks to our foresight in hiring one of the world’s foremost scientists as our technical consultant—Dr. William Oxnard, that is, who unfortunately couldn’t be with us here tonight because he’s literally spending night and day at the studio... let’s heard it for Dr. Oxnard...”
They all dutifully applauded while Finger tried to figure out where he was in his speech. “Um, well, as I was saying, we’ve got terrific scientific advice. And we’re going to have the best show, from the technical standpoint, of anything in the industry.”
More applause.
“But when you get right down to it...” Finger went on, reaching for a napkin to dab at his brow. The lights were hot, especially under those fur-trimmed robes. “When you get right down to it, what the audience sees is mainly the performers. Sure, the scripts and the sets are important, but those millions of viewers out there, they react to people... the performers who perform for them, right there in their living rooms—or bedrooms, whichever the case may be.”
I’ll never make it all the way through this speech without throwing up, Gabriel told himself.
“It’s crucially important to have a pair of brilliant costars,” Finger said, gesturing with the white napkin, “especially for a show like ‘The Starcrossed,’ which is, after all, a show about two young people, lovers, who will captivate the millions of viewers out there.”
Someone broke into enthusiastic applause, found that he was alone, quickly stopped, looked around and slid down in his chair halfway under the table.
Finger glanced in his direction, then resumed. “We are extremely fortunate in having one of the most exciting young new talents in the world to play our feminine lead, our Juliet: Rita Yearling.”
Rita stood up amid a pleasant round of applause and took a cautious bow. Considering the gown she’d been poured into and her cleavage, caution was of utmost importance. She remained standing as Finger went on:
“Isn’t she beautiful? And she can act!” Some laughter; Rita herself smiled tolerantly, while Gabriel squirmed in his chair with indignation for her.
“But although Rita Yearling will be a superstar by the end of the coming season, she’s still relatively unknown to the TV audience. So what we needed, I knew, was a male costar who would be instantly recognizable to the whole world....”
Gabriel found his puzzlement deepening. The guy sitting at Finger’s right side looked vaguely familiar, but Gabriel knew he wasn’t a well-known actor.
“So I went out and got a guy who is known the whole world over,” Finger was at his self-congratulatory best, “and signed him up to play our Romeo, our male lead. And here he is! A superstar in his own right! Francois Dulaq!”
Everyone in the big dining room rose to their feet and roared approval. “Du-laq! Du-laq!” they began chanting. Even the crystal chandeliers started swaying in rhythm with their shouts.
And then it hit Gabriel. Francois Dulaq. The hockey star. The guy who broke Orr’s old scoring record and made the Canadian Maple Stars world champions. They even beat the Russo-Chinese All-Stars, Gabriel remembered from last season’s sportscasts.
A hockey player as the male lead? It’s Buster Crabbe all over again, Gabriel moaned to himself.
He had to climb up on his chair to see what was going on. The crowd was still on its feet, roaring. Dulaq had gone around Finger to where Rita was standing. They put their arms around each other and bared the most expensive sets of teeth in television history for the media cameramen. Finger beamed approvingly.
The expatriate American tugged at Gabriel’s sleeve and yelled over the crowd’s hubbub, “Whaddaya think?”
Gabriel shrugged. “He might be okay. Looks good enough. Probably can’t act worth shit, but he wouldn’t be the first big star who couldn’t act.”
Frowning and shaking his head, the expatriate said, “Yeah, but he can’t even speak English.”
Gabriel almost fell off his chair. “What? What’s he speak, French?”
“Nope. Neanderthal.”
Not knowing whether it was a joke or not, Gabriel climbed off his perch and sat down. The crowd settled down, too, as Finger nudged Dulaq to the microphone.
“I wancha t’know,” Dulaq said, “dat I’ll t’row evert’ing I got into dis job... jus’ like I t’rew dem body checks inta dem Chinks last May!”
They all roared again. Gabriel sank his head down onto his arms and tried to keep from crying.
At precisely two a.m. Gabriel’s phone buzzed.
He wasn’t sleeping. His trusty suitcase was open on the bed, half filled with his clothes. Since the end of the dinner, Gabriel had spent the night phoning Finger, Montpelier, Brenda, Sam Lipid and anyone else who would listen, telling them that if Dulaq was the male star of the show, they could get themselves another chief writer.
They all argued with him. They cited contracts and clauses. They spoke glowingly of Dulaq’s magnetic personality and star quality and sex appeal. They promised voice coaching and speech therapy and soundtrack dubbing. Still, Gabriel packed his suitcase as he fought with them.
Then his phone buzzed.
