THE NEXT TO DIE Read Free Page B

operators.
    “Yep, working on her wardrobe,” he said, between gulps from a Mountain Dew can.
    Dennis thanked him and headed for the trailer in the corner of the soundstage. On the door was a plaque:— DAYLE SUTTON—ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK . Dennis knocked and entered.
     
    Inside the dressing room trailer, Dayle Sutton stood with her arms outstretched as if crucified. Two middle-aged women were sewing a white satin evening gown on her. She felt them pinch and tug the material around her ribs. “Can’t be tight enough,” Dayle cracked. “I’m still breathing.”
    She was filming a drama based on a best-seller, Waiting for the Fall . Today’s scene involved a flashback sequence, in which the thirty-nine-year-old actress had to look twenty without the benefit of extra filters on the camera lens. Dayle was up for the task. Besides, she had good lighting men.
    She also had a good man in Dennis Walsh. He was a production assistant with the studio, and had worked with Dayle on her last picture. He’d become indispensable. He talked to Dayle’s agent more than she did, acted as liaison with every department in the studio, and even reviewed story ideas and screenplays for her. That was why Dennis had come to her studio trailer now. He sat on the couch by Dayle’s dressing table, and unwrapped a Tootsie Roll. “Ready for the pitch?” he asked, glancing at the clipboard in his lap.
    “Fire away,” Dayle said, arms still spread out like a regal scarecrow. Along with the 1950s gown, she also wore a long blond wig.
    “You’re the First Lady, and you begin to suspect the president is really an imposter, because he starts acting different with you. And the things he does are more radical and dangerous until the world is on the brink of nuclear war.”
    “Sounds like Dave meets Suspicion meets Fail Safe ,” Dayle said.
    “Exactly. It’s a thriller.”
    “I hate it.”
    “So do I,” Dennis said. “But I figured you wouldn’t mind playing a First Lady who defies her husband and saves the world from nuclear destruction.”
    “Next?”
    “Okay, this one’s a true story,” Dennis said. “It’s about a guy who gets attacked outside a gay bar. Four college frat boys try to beat him up—”
    “Don’t tell me,” Dayle said, watching the seamstresses work on her sleeves. “‘Ripped from today’s headlines,’ shades of Tony Katz.”
    She’d met Tony only twice: first at a fund-raiser, and again when they’d been paired up as Oscar presenters last year. Dayle had found him charming and sexy. He was also extremely active in campaigns against discrimination and censorship. Everyone in Hollywood knew Tony was gay. His marriage to Linda Zane was a smoke screen. But he was so well liked, no one wanted to see his cover blown. His horrible death changed all that. Nobody talked about Tony Katz, the actor; they only talked about Tony Katz, the closet homosexual who was killed with his pants down.
    Dennis snacked on his Tootsie Roll. “According to ‘Just call me Elsie,’” he said, between chews, “Tony and his friend brought it all on themselves. How about that? God, I would love to punch that old gasbag’s lights out.”
    “Yeah, well, take a number,” Dayle said, lowering her arms a bit for circulation. “Anyway, about the movie, is there a part for me?”
    “Yes, indeedee,” he said. “See, the guy kills one of his attackers—cuts a frat boy’s throat with a broken beer bottle. So believe it or not, they put him on trial for murder. He hires this lesbian attorney to defend him, and after a lot of opposition in this small, affluent college town, she gets this guy acquitted. It’s an old script that’s been floating around, but Soren Eberhart wants to direct, and Avery Cooper’s interested in playing the gay guy.”
    “ Philadelphia meets The Accused ,” Dayle said. “And you want me to play a lesbian lawyer? Next, please.”
    “Why are you passing?”
    “Two words,” Dayle replied. “ Survival