Anatomy of a Crossword Read online

  “Okay. The way the show goes is like this: In the first round there are six words, all the same length, three letters—three words across and three down and they crisscross symmetrically. The words always have an odd number of letters as Orso expands the grid round by round; that’s the only way it works. So the two words in the center always share a middle letter. Now, Gerry Orso gives you the letter in the middle of the grid at the start of each round … You with me so far?”

  “Yes.” Belle was greatly relieved to note the cabbie had finally returned his concentration on the traffic patterns before him.

  “Okay. Now, if you can visualize all this on the back wall of the studio set …” He lifted both hands from the steering wheel in an attempt to paint a picture in the air. “What you have up there are spaces for the six words … In the case of the two center words, you already know what the middle letter will be. Okay, Gerry—by the way, he’s from Indiana, too. So’s David Letterman … Okay, Gerry Orso then reads a clue; then, one of the contestants hits the buzzer, gives the answer, and tells Gerry where to place the word. The first two clues are always for the two center words; and natch, the correct answers need to include the center letter Gerry’s already supplied … Then the contestants guess the other four words from Gerry’s clues and place them correctly—either north, south, east, or west on the grid.”

  “I follow that … You can put your hands back on the steering wheel if you like.”

  “Okay. When the grid expands, and you get to the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth words it gets harder because the grid fills in and you need to match more of the letters, just like in a crossword puzzle.”

  “But you win more money as it get harder, is that it?”

  “Right. And, of course, the length of the word changes with each round. The first is three-letter words, so the grid looks something like a Rubik’s Cube; then the pressure mounts as you get your seven-letter words, et cetera …”

  “I see,” Belle answered, but the cabbie didn’t need any prompting.

  “… Gossip has it that some old coot was a million-dollar Grand-Slam Winner a while back … But Stan McKenet hasn’t aired that show yet, so no one knows who the old geezer is … well, the studio audience, I guess, but they have to sign waivers that keep them from blabbing until the show’s aired.”

  “You seem to know Down & Across fairly well for someone who’s only seen it once or twice.”

  “Ahh … Yeah, well, my mom keeps me filled in from time to time. Me, I’m like you. I don’t spend too much time in front of the TV.”

  “So, you do a lot of reading?”

  “Nah, surfing. On water.”

  “I see,” Belle repeated, then suddenly wondered what was it about this city—or cities—that prompted people to lie. Because the cabbie obviously had not been telling the truth about how familiar he was with Down & Across. And neither had she. She found it very curious.

  The remainder of the trip passed in silence. The freeway changed from the 101 to the 134, from which the cabbie exited onto Pass Avenue in Burbank. About eight blocks north on Pass Avenue, the car reached the corner of Magnolia Boulevard and the entrance to Stan McKenet Studios. It was highlighted by a drive-through archway blocked off by a pole-gate marked with reflective spiral orange-and-white stripes and a flashing red light. There were pedestrian walkways on either side of the gate, each with a turnstile. A uniformed guard ensconced in a booth presided over all three entry points. The driver stopped and turned in his seat to face Belle.

  “Generally they don’t let cabs onto the lot, but I’ll give it a try.”

  A second security guard approached the car. The cabbie rolled down his window and said, “Down & Across. We’re running a little late, so if you could just raise the gate we’ll be outta your hair …”

  The guard looked at Belle. “Do you have a ticket, ma’am?”

  Belle produced the ticket, which he glanced at and retuned. “Thank you. You’ll need to walk onto the lot and take the shuttle over to Studio Twenty-six. Security’s tightened. We don’t let taxis in any more.”

  “Is there a terrorism threat?”

  “No, there’s a fear that the taxis may be driven by desperate actors.” He checked his watch. “You’ve got plenty of time.”

  Belle paid the driver and stepped from the car.

  “Take a left after you pass beneath the arch,” the guard said, pointing. “If you want your cab driver to pick you up here, he’ll have to get in line fifteen or twenty minutes early.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’ll just hail a taxi when the show’s over.”

  Both the guard and the driver reacted as if she’d told them the joke of a lifetime. When they settled down, the guard said, “You’re not from L.A., are you?”

  Belle shook her head.

  “Well, you don’t hail taxis in L.A., ma’am. You’d be here a month of Sundays before one passed this gate. If you want to get home tonight, I suggest you have this young man pick you up … at say … eight-thirty. Taping should be done by then.”

  Belle said nothing. The cabbie tooted his horn twice, gave her a thumbs-up signal and called out, “Catch you at eight-thirty.” He then backed into traffic.

  “You don’t drive?” the guard asked as they walked toward the pedestrian entry together.

  “Yes.”

  “Do yourself a favor, rent a car. Taxis are murder around here.”

  “Starting tomorrow, I have someone who’ll be driving me around. I’m only here for a week.”

  The guard shrugged. “Suit yourself. Show your ticket to Artie there. The shuttle is just on the other side of the gate. It should be leaving in five minutes. Studio Twenty-six. Don’t miss the stop.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The McKenet Studio shuttle bus resembled the average airport courtesy van. Ten rows of seats, two on each side of a center aisle, enabled it to hold forty people. The bus was nearly half-full when Belle stepped on, and as she worked her way toward the rear, she noticed a seventy-something woman with pink-white hair sitting alone. This woman was petite, almost child-sized, and dressed in a silky pants ensemble in soft shades of peach, coral, and gold; a chiffon scarf, knotted at her neck; and large hoop earrings intended for a younger wearer. Beige sandals constructed to support aging and falling arches added the only jarring note to the ultrafeminine garb, but the wearer kept the shoes locked together in a ladylike pose, tucked away from sight. She was also in the midst of fastidiously filling in spaces in a Charles Preston giant crossword collection—in ink. Deciding the passenger was probably well-acquainted with Down & Across, Belle asked if the seat beside her was taken.

  “Why, not at all, dearie.” The response was a birdlike warble. “I’d love some company.” She slid her small but surprisingly agile legs into the aisle, and Belle took the seat next to the window.

  “Sorry, hon, but I just can’t sit in the outside seat,” the woman said. “I know Herbert is an excellent driver, really the best on the lot, but I feel trapped on the outside … Ever since that one fellow drove the courtesy van into the lake where Sea Demons was filmed and that poor man drowned … Of course the driver on that run was always high as a kite. I don’t think Herbert smokes too much pot. At least, I hope he doesn’t. You never do know nowadays, do you? Well anyway, I just believe it’s better to be on the aisle in case there’s a problem. At my age, I don’t like problems.”

  “I’m fine with the window,” Belle said as she settled in.

  The woman’s round, black eyes scrutinized Belle. “Haven’t I seen you before? Well, not in person … but I’m sure I recognize your face … and that blonde hair … Maybe from a story in a magazine …?”

  As Belle scrambled for a response that would ensure her anonymity, the woman gasped suddenly.

  “I know! You were Richard Perry’s partner’s ex-girlfriend in the TV movie about the crooked cop! Are you currently filming something on this lot?”

  Belle blushed a bright red. “No, no. I’m not an actress. I�
��m just here to watch a taping of Down & Across.”

  “Well, you certainly could be an actress. You have that look. I’m a pretty good judge of who has the look and who doesn’t. It’s all in the cheekbones. A person will never become a movie star if they don’t have high cheekbones like you. And I’ll bet you have no trouble getting the boys, either, do you?”

  “Actually, I’m married.” Belle held up her wedding ring as evidence.

  The woman laughed. “Yes, but how many times? I’ve had five husbands.” This was said with much pride, as if each mate represented a notch on a gun handle. “Of course, none of them were able to keep up with me. A weak constitution, to the man. You’d think I could have picked them better, but I’ve always had a soft spot for a pretty face.” She laughed again. “But, they all drop dead sooner or later, don’t they? You get yourself a good life insurance policy on that man of yours, young lady. You don’t want to be left out in the cold.” She extended her hand to Belle. “My name is Harriet Tammalong. I’m going to the Down & Across taping, too.”

  Belle shook her hand and immediately realized that the woman, being quite obviously a puzzle fiend, would undoubtedly recognize her name, and that the last thing she wanted in her weary state was undue attention. So she said, “It’s nice to meet you, Harriet … I’m Gale Harmble.” It was the name of one of her best friends in grade school.

  “G-A-I-L or G-A-L-E? Like Gale Storm. I’ve always loved that name.”

  “Yes, it’s G-A-L-E.”

  “And are you tempestuous, dearie?”

  Belle laughed. “I’d suppose you’d have to ask my husband about that.”

  “Oh, I can tell by looking at you that he has his hands full.” Harriet gave her a suggestive wink, then said, “This is your first visit to Down & Across, isn’t it?”

  “Why, yes …?” Belle answered quizzically as the bus began to pull away from the pickup area.

  “Oh, I’m not clairvoyant, hon; it’s simply that I never miss a show. I’m the most regular of the regulars, so if there’s a new face in the crowd, I’m the first to spot it.” Harriet patted Belle on the leg. “Well, you’ll just have to sit with me, then, won’t you Gale?”

  Belle again held her ticket up to the light. “I’m not sure where my seat is. I don’t see any numbers here, just the date.”

  “It’s general admission, but an usher always saves a special seat for me. And if the seat next to me is taken today, I’ll ask one the boys to give the person the boot. I’m in the third row.”

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  “I sit on the aisle … In case there’s an emergency. I don’t like to be in a place where the exit is difficult to reach. If you’re my size, you have to be extra careful. Gerry Orso always gives me a big hello and a kiss before the show starts. If I were thirty years younger, I’d snap him up for hubby number six, I swear. He’s such a dreamboat, don’t you think?”

  Unbidden, another falsehood rose to Belle’s lips. “Actually, I’ve never seen the show.”

  “Well, then, you must be the only woman on earth who isn’t in love with Gerry Orso. Orso it would seem.” Harriet cackled at length over this bit of witticism. “Oh, don’t mind me,” she finally said, “that’s a running gag with Gerry and the regulars.”

  “I see. Well, I’m looking forward to seeing all this—how a game show is filmed, I mean.”

  As the bus worked its way through the maze of studios, outbuildings, and the mostly darkened trailers of the TV and movie stars, Belle explained how she’d just arrived from Massachusetts and had been given the ticket to Down & Across as a going-away gift from friends back East. On a hunch that her seatmate might have information about a future TV movie whose denouement involved a crossword puzzle, Belle avoided using real names. Instead, she continued in her disingenuous vain, explaining that she was taking a short vacation out West while her husband was fishing in Minnesota. She smiled to herself, thinking that fishing in Minnesota was the last thing Rosco would dream of doing. After a ten-minute ride, the shuttle came to a stop, and the driver called out, “Studio Twenty-six.”

  “This is us,” Harriet said excitedly. She jumped to her feet like a ten-year-old. “Stay close. Don’t get lost on me now. I want you to get a good seat.”

  Belle followed as Harriet authoritatively pushed her way off the bus and trotted toward the studio door. The evening air had cooled down to a pleasant seventy degrees, but clearly many of the “natives” considered this near to freezing, and quickly pulled on sweaters and jackets. Belle found their behavior amusing, but as soon as she stepped into the studio, she, too, slipped into her denim jacket. The cavernous building appeared to be the size of an airplane hangar; the chill made it seem as if the hangar were somewhere in northern Alaska.

  “Oh, don’t worry, hon,” Harriet smiled, “things’ll get warmer as soon as they kick up these lights.” She pointed up to the colossal black metal framework that hung from the ceiling and seemed to support a thousand studio lights.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Tammalong.” The greeting came from a burly man wearing a plaid shirt; faded, but well-ironed jeans; and wide orange suspenders that gleamed neon-bright across his paunch. He looked to be nearing sixty, mostly bald with a salt-and-pepper beard that was trimmed in a surprisingly elegant and precise fashion.

  “Good evening, Matthew,” she responded. “I have my niece with me tonight, so I hope the seat next to mine is free?”

  Belle raised bemused eyebrows while Matt craned his neck to look past the crowd of people. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, someone’s in those seats, but I’ll take care of it right now, Mrs. Tammalong.” He moved down the aisle.

  “Niece?” Belle asked.

  “For your own protection, dearie. Besides being an absolute dreamboat, Gerry Orso is also a world-class letch. He’d be all over you otherwise.”

  “Well, I am married.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. When would that stop a man like Gerry? Follow me.”

  Harriet again shoved her small body into the crowd, ordering a brisk, “Coming through, coming through,” while Belle tagged along like a gangly and awe-struck child. When they reached the third row of seats, they found Matthew standing guard over Harriet’s chosen places.

  “Thank you, Matthew, you’re such a sweetheart.” She handed him a twenty dollar bill. Belle raised her eyebrows slightly as the cash exchanged hands. “Oh, it’s only money, dearie.… I mean, what’s it for, anyway? I say, if you have it, share it.”

  Belle smiled, and the two women sat down.

  “Besides, like they say … You can’t take it with you. Look at all those husbands of mine.” She sighed, but the sound was more disapproval than regret. “That Matthew is such a nice man. He’s new. Well, new to his current job; he had a lesser position and was just moved up last week. He’s now the key grip. It’s a very good promotion. Although he’s done it before.”

  “Key grip?”

  “The number one stagehand …? He basically runs the whole shooting match. Don’t let anyone tell you anything different. You think it’s the director, right? The producer? Forget it; not in a million years.” Harriet paused, looking to see if her new friend Gale was keeping up. “… Years ago Matthew was the key grip on that drama … You know the one … What was the name of that show …? The one that whats-his-name starred in? Set in Hawaii? Or was it Chicago? Well, it makes no difference. But he’s only here on trial basis for a month, Orso I’m told … Then they decide if he stays on. I don’t watch dramas, myself. People are always getting killed on them … And they call that entertainment? You can keep it …” Harriet pointed to a smoked glass window high above the lighting grid. “That’s where all the head honchos are—up in the booth.”

  “‘Head honchos’?”

  “The show’s creator, and so forth.” Harriet hesitated for a moment. “Huh, well I’ll be, I never looked at it like that until this very minute … The creator. Up there in the heavens? That sure gives you pause for thought, doesn’t it? Anyw
ay, the fellow who dreamed up Down & Across is in the booth with the director, the staff writers, and the producer—Stan McKenet. Stan’s father, old Stan, started this studio forty years ago.” Harriet opened her purse and removed a package of black licorice and offered Belle a stick. “This is my absolute favorite snack,” she said.

  “Mine, too.” Belle answered without thinking, “Well, actually deviled eggs are the top of the list, but right below them is licorice.” It was less than a millisecond later that she realized that Belle Graham’s addiction to deviled eggs was a well-documented fact. Gale Harmble would have to be a little more careful if she wanted to keep her alias intact.

  But before Harriet could respond, there was a commotion at the rear of the studio. They turned to see Gerry Orso arriving to applause, banners, and placards proclaiming his fans’ enthusiasm, as well as excited whoops and hollers. Everyone wanted Gerry to grace them with a special nod. The show’s host walked forward greeting his audience, supplying kisses for the women nearest the aisle and convivial hand shakes for the men, although it was clear that the female members of the group received superior attention. Orso was slender and handsome, in his mid-forties—or made to look that age—with wavy, brown hair and a tan that appeared to have been applied chemically rather than acquired in the normal, lazing-poolside manner.

  Gerry worked his way down the aisle, and finally stopped next to Harriet. He bent down, kissed her on both miniature cheeks and said, “Ah, the ever faithful Mrs. Tammalong.” But like a savvy politician, his eyes had already moved to the next potential admirer—who was Belle. “Well, hello! And who have we here? A new visitor to Down & Across? Orso I’d guess. And who might you be?” He took Belle’s hand, kissed it, then nearly crawled over Harriet in an attempt to plant a smooch on her lips.

  Belle recoiled instinctively, while Harriet shoved her purse into the host’s ribcage. “That’s my niece, Gerry! You stay away from her.”