Anatomy of a Crossword (6 page)

As far as Belle was concerned, seventy-five in a driving rainstorm didn't pass for “nice and easy,” even by Massachusetts standards. She checked to be certain that her seat belt was secure, as though the vehicle's pilot had just announced that he expected some major turbulence up ahead.

The taxi climbed up through the Sepulveda Pass, approaching the summit. Belle could see a sign for Mulholland Drive through her rain-splattered window. The words were illuminated only by the glare of the oncoming headlights, like a scene out of a 1950s' black-and-white Robert Mitchum movie.

After another quarter of a mile, the cab reached the top of the hill, where the rain suddenly and miraculously stopped, revealing a handful of stars twinkling in the night sky to the north. Below them, a carpet of luminescence stretched as far as the eye could see, the city blocks delineated in perfect rectangles by streaks of red and white automobile lights. The freeway's surface was bone dry. Not a drop of rain had touched the San Fernando Valley.

“Is this your first time to a TV studio?” the driver asked.

“Yes. I just flew in. I've never been to Los Angeles before. It's certainly an intriguing city.”

He laughed. “Yeah, that it is … Intriguing. Every day I'm more
intrigued.
But … You gotta call it ‘L.A.' Nobody says Los Angeles except the mayor, and nobody listens to him. And technically Burbank, where you're going tonight, isn't even part of L.A. It's a city within a city, with its own police force, its own school system, et cetera. Just like Santa Monica, where I picked you up? Same thing. Its own city. Its own police, yada-yada.”

“Why is that?”

“Beats me.” The cabbie pulled off the 405 and headed east on the 101 Freeway. “So, what show are you going to see? A sitcom? Don't they shoot
Gilbert's Gondola
at the McKenet Studios?”

“Gee, I don't know. Do they?” Belle said. “I hope I've got the right address. Some friends back home gave me a ticket to a game show. It was a going-away gift … The show's
Down & Across
.” She pulled the ticket from her purse and held it to the window for more light. “Yes, it says it's taped at the McKenet Studios in Burbank.”

“Yeah, that's right.
Down & Across
is one of Stan's babies. Big hit.”

“Stan?”

“Stan McKenet.” The driver said this as if he and “Stan” had been best of friends in high school, or perhaps surfing buddies.

The response prompted Belle to ask “Do you know him? The producer?”

“No. No. But he's done that show for a while. My mom watches it all the time … But hey, she lives in Indiana, what do you expect?”

“Is something wrong with Indiana?”

“I grew up there.” He gave Belle no time to fathom what the remark was intended to mean; instead, he continued. “So, you're into crosswords, huh? One of them puzzle junkies.”

Belle wasn't certain what prompted what would become her first lie of the evening; it simply popped out of her mouth almost before she was aware of speaking. “Not really, but my friend thought I'd enjoy seeing a game show, with a live audience … get a behind-the-scenes look.” Then she added a bit of truth to the mix. “I don't watch much TV. I'm more of a book person.”

“The show's pretty good.”

Belle couldn't resist saying, “Did you hear that from your mother?”

“Er … Ah … No. Well … I've watched it once or twice myself.” He swerved the cab quickly and passed three cars on the right side. “So, you don't know how
Down & Across
works, then?”

Lie number two. “Not really.”

“But you know the host, Gerry Orso, right?”

“Ummm—”

“I mean, everybody's gotta know Gerry Orso. He used to be in that sitcom about the polo team …? I loved that when I was a kid.”

“The polo team?”

“Great show … really dynamite … Anyways, so Gerry's hosting
Down & Across
, and each night there are two contestants. You know what a tic-tac-toe grid looks like? Or that little pound sign on the telephone? Two lines across and two lines down? And they intersect each other? Some people call it a hash mark …? Well, that's what the playing grid looks like on
Down & Across
, except there are
six
lines going down and six lines going across on the show, instead of two. Get it?”

Throughout this brief monologue, the driver kept his eyes fixed on Belle in the mirror. She nearly screamed, “Yes, yes. I get it! I get it!” in an effort to force him to concentrate on the road ahead.

“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.