Kookaburra Gambit

Fifteen

I was sitting in my office updating my notes on the Hartnidge case when the phone rang. It was Fran, who was manning the front desk, as she usually did when it was Melodie's lunch hour. "Kylie, something's wrong with Melodie."

"What's happened? Is she sick? An accident?"

"No idea," said Fran, who actually sounded concerned. "She just rushed in a minute ago, wearing dark glasses, and went directly to the bathroom. Didn't say hi. Didn't natter on about the audition."

"Nothing about her audition? That sounds serious. Do you mind staying at the front desk while I see what's up?" After Fran had assured me, with requisite sarcasm, that there was no place she'd rather be, I went off to locate Melodie.

Because our offices were in a converted house, the staff bathroom was just that-a bathroom with bath, shower recess, and toilet. I found Harriet outside the door, jigging up and down.

"Kylie," she said. "Thank God! You know what pregnancy does to your bladder? I've got to go, right now, but Melodie won't open the door."

"Use my bathroom. Meanwhile, I'll see if I can extract her from this one." I knocked gently on the door. "Melodie?"

I could make out someone inside wailing, "Go away."

"I'm not going away." I tried the handle. Locked, of course. "Melodie, open this door."

"I can't."

Good thing I had excellent hearing. The door was a substantial one, and Melodie's voice was faint. "You mean the door's jammed? Are you saying you want a locksmith?"

"No locksmith!" This was followed by loud sobs.

"Melodie, open this door, or I'll break it down."

"You wouldn't."

"I would!"

A pause was followed by the sound of the door being unlocked. I went in, closely followed by Julia Roberts, who'd been attracted by the commotion. Melodie plunked herself on the edge of the bath and buried her face in her hands. Sobs shook her slender body. Julia Roberts gave me a look that clearly said, It's your problem, before walking gracefully out of the bathroom.

"What the hell's the matter?" inquired Lonnie, putting his head around the edge of the door.

"If you want a bathroom, use mine." I sat beside Melodie and gave her a few comforting pats on the back. "There, there."

Lonnie came all the way into the room. Bending down to look closely at Melodie's hunched form, he said, "What happened? You blew the Refulgent callback?"

Melodie raised her head. I was ashamed to find myself relieved to discover that when Melodie sobbed, her skin became blotchy and her eyes got pinkish-red. Up to now I'd suspected I was the only one in L.A. who looked a wreck after crying. Not that I ever cried…

"I did not blow the Refulgent callback." Melodie was very indignant. "I'll have you know I've been cast in the Refulgent commercial. If you don't believe me, ask Larry, my agent."

"Then why all this weeping and wailing?" Lonnie asked.

Melodie bowed her head. "I didn't get the speaking part I was hoping for."

Lonnie put his hands on his plump hips. "You're telling me you're just an extra on the set?"

"An extra?" outraged, Melodie leapt to her feet. "I'm not just an extra. If you must know, Lonnie, I have an important role. I follow Beach Refulgent Girl and Amusement Park Refulgent Girl. I'm Laundry Refulgent Girl."

"But no dialogue."

"Will you shut up about the dialogue! It's not an easy role. I'm in this Laundromat, you see, and I have to wink at this good-looking guy, then toss back my head with a laugh"-she paused to give a pale shadow of the tinkling laugh she'd been perfecting for weeks-"and then I smile a Refulgent smile."

"But no actual dialogue?" said Lonnie.

I had to physically restrain Melodie, or I suspect there would have been blood on the floor.

Denting the pink convertible Cadillac had depressed Alf mightily. He drove the car with only a trace of his former verve. "I'll be returning this damaged beauty to the rental place," he said. "For LA. I need something tougher. Maybe a Hummer. What do you think, Chicka?"

Chicka wasn't for the Hummer. "How about a truck with a decent bullbar? That'd give you a fighting chance in the traffic around here."

Trucks seemed to be a favorite subject in the Hartnidge family. For the next twenty minutes I heard just about every possible comment one could make about a truck and its equipment. I let my mind drift, contemplating an interesting thought that had occurred to me. Although the Hartnidge twins were virtually indistinguishable, and dressed pretty close to identically, I'd always known who was Alf and who was Chicka. I'd never mixed them up.

"Who was born first?" I asked.

They broke off their truck talk to look at me. "I'm the eldest," said Alf. "Can't you tell? Chicka here's my baby brother."

"Only by ten minutes," he said.

"Being the firstborn changes you," Alf declared.

Chicka muttered something that sounded like, "And not for the better," but fortunately at that point our destination came into view.

The arch over the driveway into Lamb White's studios had the words lamb white: movies of integrity in scintillating blue letters on a silver background. The guards at the gate had the same words on their uniform jackets.

Each of us had to produce proof of identity. Our names were then checked off a list, and we were given visitor badges to wear. Our vehicle was searched. One guard shook his head over the state of the Cadillac's grille.

"A bloody Hummer, mate," said Alf in explanation. "A bloody Hummer."

"Backed into you, did it?"

"No, mate," said Alf. "The Hummer cut me off. Believe me, I've got reflexes like a tiger, but I still couldn't stop in time. Whacked right into the big bastard."

There was much head-shaking all round, then finally we were waved through.

The exclamation queen, Rachelle, was sitting at the reception desk, her curly black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her notable cleavage hidden by a demure blue outfit that proclaimed lamb white: we care so much across her left breast.

Rachelle flashed a professional smile our way, then did a double take, obviously recalling us from the barbecue. "Don't tell me! I know you! The twins! And you!"

"Kylie."

"And you, Kylie!"

A mousy woman in the same blue outfit, but bearing the words lamb white: purity in film, escorted us to a lift and took us up the executive suites. The script meeting was to be held in a conference room, and Tami Eckholdt was waiting outside. Her short copper hair seemed to have an even more metallic sheen than previously, and her tight green dress displayed her impressively fit body to advantage.

She gave a perfunctory greeting to Alf and Chicka but turned her full charm on me. "Kylie, so truly wonderful you could spare the time." She seized my hand in a tight grasp.

"Pleased to be here, Tami."

I reclaimed my fingers with difficulty. Tami gave me the once-over, and said, "You're looking very fit, Kylie. Do you work out?"

"Not so you'd notice."

"I do, myself. Regularly, every day. Lamb White has an executive gym. A healthy mind in a healthy body, you know."

"Interesting," I said.

"It is. Perhaps you'd like to come by someday?"

"Maybe someday," I said vaguely.

"Unarmed combat," said Tami.

I stared at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"Unarmed combat. It's a wonderful way to sharpen reflexes, improve balance, and energize one's self-image."

"I'll take your word for it."

Tami laughed as if I'd said something funny. "Oh, you Aussies!" she said. "I just love you to pieces!"

"I suppose we'd better join the others," I said, making moves in the direction of the conference room.

"Later, then, Kylie. Let's talk."

The conference room was over-the-top luxurious. The pale carpet was practically ankle deep; the walls were hung with what had to be original paintings; and the large, round conference table and accompanying chairs were sleekly expensive. Each leather place mat had a bound copy of the Oz Mob script precisely centered. Everyone was provided with a crystal water flask and a crystal glass. One side of the room contained a miniature kitchen setup with an espresso machine and a glass-fronted refrigerator containing a wide selection of fruit juices and other bottled drinks.

My skin prickled with alarm. I'd caught sight of a bloke already sitting at the conference table. Quip. He could blow my cover in ten seconds flat.

While Tami was barking commands at some underling-I noted she had a much harsher tone when speaking to staff-I sidled up to Quip. "You don't know me," I hissed out of the corner of my mouth. "We've never met."

Quip grinned at me. "Why, hello," he said loudly. "I don't believe we've met." He got to his feet to shake my hand. "I'm Quip. Quip Trent."

"Kylie."

He grinned. "Lovely name. Australian, is it?"

"Shall we begin?" Tami asked. It wasn't a question.

There were seven of us-Alf, Chicka, Quip, Tami Eckholdt, and two young men, who stood back waiting, watching Tami like well-trained servants ready to leap to her command. One was dark and one was fair, but otherwise they seemed interchangeable.

"Tami's yes-men," whispered Alf with the closest thing to a sneer I'd ever seen on his face.

"Please note," said Tami, smiling at me, "the egalitarian round-table arrangement. This reflects Lamb White's charter: 'All for one and one for all.'"

"I think that's the motto of the Three Musketeers," I said.

Tami frowned. "I don't believe so. If these musketeers are using Lamb White's slogan, there'll be legal action, I'm afraid. We're very zealous in protecting our intellectual property."

Alf suddenly seemed to remember I was supposed to be his girlfriend, putting an arm around my waist and squeezing me till I yelped. "Sorry, love. Come and sit down by me."

"There's a chair here, Kylie," said Tami, "beside me."

Crikey, I was getting popular. They'd be fighting over me next. I ended up with Alf to my right and Tami to my left. Chicka sat on Tami's other side, and next to him was one of the nameless yes-men. The circle was completed by the other yes-man next to Alf, and Quip beside him.

Tami looked around the table with a complacent air. I had the sense she particularly liked meetings where she was in charge. "For those of you who don't know him, let me introduce Quip Trent, an experienced script doctor," Tami said. Quip nodded modestly.

Experienced? I happened to know Quip had written several screenplays but had never had one picked up.

Chicka, perturbed, cracked his knuckles. Alf glared at him. Tami looked pained.

"Why do we need a script doctor?" Chicka asked. "The thing's been rewritten by your people at least six times. Hardly any-thing's left of Vinnie Morgan's Aussie script, and I thought it was crash-hot."

Alf said warningly, "Chicka, mate. Tami knows what she's talking about. She's the expert here, and don't you forget it."

"I still don't think we need all these bloody rewrites."

Tami appeared to make a real attempt to appear patient, but the challenge was too much for her. "For an amateur it may seem strange, but it's the process we use here in the industry, Chicka," she said in an icy tone. "Many writers contribute, each adding his or her own take on the project. Then, if necessary-and it is necessary here-a script doctor comes in to smooth any rough edges before the final rewrite. And, of course, the director will be making ongoing changes during the shoot."

"Shit!" said Chicka inelegantly. "You lot will rewrite the bloody thing to death." I couldn't remember ever hearing Chicka swear.

"Thank you for your contribution, Chicka. Now, if we can move on, there seems to be a general agreement the story arc is sagging a little in the second act."

"What do you mean?" Alf asked. "There's lots happening between Penny Platypus and Kelvin Kookaburra."

"There's no real emotional connection between these characters," said Tami. "We need something to fully engage the children in our primary audience." Her yes-men murmured agreement.

"Kids like little things," I said. "How about baby animals?"

"Baby animals are good," said Tami, beaming at me approvingly.

"Let's see," I said. "If a wombat and a bandicoot had a child, that'd be a womcoot, or a bandiwom. And how about a kangaroo and a platypus falling in love? They'd have little platkangs, or maybe kangaplats." I was just warming up. "And there could be kookawallas-"

"Aaagh!" Tami's face was contorted with horror. "No Lamb White movie has interspecies relationships!"

"What? They can't be friends?" Alf protested. "That's the whole point of the Oz Mob."

"They can be friends," snapped Tami, "but no sex. Absolutely no hint of mating. The whole topic is absolutely forbidden."

Disgust contorted her face. "The very thought of a kangaroo and platypus falling in love…" She gagged.

"You're right," I said, "the size differential's too great, plus Penny Platypus would be spending most of her life in water. I'm afraid the relationship's doomed before it begins."

Tami's face now reflected suspicion. Could she actually have the rudiments of a sense of humor and realize I was having fun with her?

"This subject is closed," she said. Her yes-men nodded. "Now, to move to the next item, I have a problem with Kelvin Kookaburra. His dialogue seems a little…how shall I put it? Homosexual." Deep disgust had returned to her face.

"Oh?" said Quip, frowning. "Could you point out an example of this, Tami?"

Tami picked up her copy of the script and flipped pages noisily. "Page twenty has Kelvin speaking with Penny Platypus." Her mouth twisted with distaste. Tami was certainly asking a lot of her facial muscles this afternoon.

Everyone obediently flipped pages to find the place. Tami put on red-framed reading glasses. "Quoting Kelvin's words, the script has him saying to Penny Platypus the following: 'Omigod, Pennicles, where did you get that divine outfit? Isn't it just darling!'"

She put down the script and looked accusingly around the table. "Is it just me, or is that a gay kookaburra talking?"

"I think it's just you," said Quip cheerfully.

"Sounds gay to me," said one of the yes-men. The other one nodded emphatically.

"Maybe Kelvin is just a touch effeminate," I said.

Tami frowned heavily. "Lamb White movies always portray genders as very distinct. We see it as our God-given duty to present malleable little minds with role models of real men and real women. Effeminacy is out."

"So," said Quip, busily scribbling notes. "You're asking for an ultrabutch kookaburra." He gave her a sly smile. "Have I got that straight?"

I repressed a grin.

Any impulse to smile rapidly disappeared when I realized Tami's knee was pressing against mine. I moved fractionally. Tami's knee followed. I glanced at her. She sent me a meaningful little smile.

Hell's bells! I was a victim of sexual harassment. Sexual harassment from a sheila who specialized in unarmed combat. Wouldn't it rot your socks!