The Extra (5 page)

“If you want,” Warren answered awkwardly.  Was he supposed to be in a union?  He had no idea.

“You are or you aren’t,” said Kevin, slightly perturbed.

“No, man, he’s not in the union,” said Charles.

Kevin stood where he was, pensively, with his arms crossed.  He lifted a thumb and forefinger to his chin as he thought to himself.  “I’ve got a speaking part,” he said.  “It’s only a few lines.  You think you can handle it?”

“Yeah, he can handle it,” said Bridget with enthusiasm.  “Are you going to sponsor him for the guild?”

“If we use him,” said Kevin.

“What do I have to say?” asked Warren.  He wasn’t sure he wanted a speaking role.  It was easier to stand in the background, as inconspicuously as possible.  But then again, at least this was something to do.  Anything beat sitting around in limbo all afternoon.   And besides, it wasn’t like Warren could refuse.  It was their game, after all.  He looked to Bridget, who gave him a wide-eyed nod.

“Come with me,” said Kevin.  “We’ll see how you do.”

Warren stood and followed the assistant director back into the soundstage. 

“What’s your name?” Kevin asked as they went.

“Warren.”

“All right, Warren, you’ve got some information and you’re going to try to sell it to the leader of the South Side Gang.  These are your lines,” Kevin handed Warren a sheet of paper.  When they entered the stage, Jessica Turnbull sat at a table on the nightclub set with the actor who played McGhee; she in her same black dress and he in his gangster finest; a double-breasted suit with a wide-brimmed hat on his head.  Beside them stood Kaplan with his arms crossed.  A few feet away hovered two beefy thugs in suits of their own, with two-day beards and a few fake scars on their faces. 

“This is Warren,” Kevin said when they approached the table.

“Has he acted before?” Kaplan asked.

“No, sir,” answered Warren.  “Not until yesterday.  If you call that acting.”  He was in no mood to embellish.  They might as well know the truth.  

“Was he our only choice?” said Kaplan dubiously.

“He looked like the best option to me,” said a slightly defensive Kevin.

Kaplan ran his fingers through his hair as he looked Warren over.  The director’s expression brightened as he spotted some of what Kevin had seen.  It wasn’t any one thing in particular.  No, it was something indefinable.  Something vague and yet powerful.  A way that the man had about himself.  A look in his eyes.  A depth, hidden beneath his layers of grime.  Perhaps he might work after all.  “All right, we’ll give him a shot,” Kaplan said, taking the script out of Warren’s hands.  “Read this out loud,” he pointed to a line and handed the script back.  “You can read, can’t you?”

“Of course I can read,” said a perturbed Warren.  Maybe he was homeless, but he wasn’t ignorant.  He looked over the words on the page, and then at the people standing around him.  “Like a gangster?” he asked.

“No, you’re not a gangster.  You’re an informer,” said Kaplan.  “Just a man looking for an easy buck.”

That didn’t sound too tough.  He could certainly do that.  Warren looked back to the lines on the page and then up again to the impassive faces, all watching him.  He’d do the best he could.

“Go ahead,” said Kaplan.

Warren cleared his throat and began.  “I’ve got some information for you McGhee, and for you alone,” he said.

The director looked moderately impressed.  “Not bad,” he said.  “Not bad at all.  Let’s try a full read-through.”

Outside in the holding area, Charles, Marjorie and Bridget sat playing cards with small piles of change on the table.  By far the largest pile sat in front of Marjorie.  “I call,” said Charles, placing his hand on the table.  “Three of a kind.”

Marjorie smiled wryly and put her own cards down.  “Full house,” she said.

“Damn!  I thought all you ever played was solitaire!”

“What, are you trying to take advantage of an old lady?” said Marjorie, lighting up a cigarette despite the “No Smoking” signs posted throughout the tent.

“If I am, I’m not doing a very good job of it.” Charles gathered the cards and gave them a shuffle.  He was dealing a new hand when Warren walked back over and sat down at the table.

“Look who’s back,” said Bridget.  “How’d it go?”

“Nobody complained or anything,” said Warren with a shrug.

“You actually got a speaking role?” said Charles.

“I said some lines,” answered Warren.

“Did they film you?” asked Bridget.

“Yeah, they filmed it,” said Warren.  The others seemed to think it was some big deal, but to Warren it was all just part of the game.

“Good for you, kid,” said Marjorie between puffs.

“Of course, the new dude gets all the good parts,” said Charles.

“You know what this means?” said Bridget.

“No,” said Warren.  “What does it mean?”

“It means that they have to sponsor you for the union.  You just got a hefty pay raise.”

“How much?”

“Double.”

“Two years and I’m still not in the union, and it takes him two days!” said Charles with a half smile, trying to mask his bitterness.

“All I did was show up,” said Warren, but in his mind he was thinking of the $120 per day.  Was she really serious?  He could tell by her hopeful expression that she was.  This was big money. 

“You must have good karma,” said Bridget.

“I guess I’ve been storing it up.”

“You got any change, kid?” Marjorie asked.

“Change?  No, I don’t have any,” Warren answered.

“Don’t worry, she can spot you,” said Charles.  “She took most of mine already.”

“Hey, I ain’t no charity here,” Marjorie complained.

Bridget slid some change to Warren.  “I got you covered,” she said with a slight smile.

“Thanks,” Warren replied.  Their eyes met and stayed fastened upon one another for perhaps a moment too long.  Warren looked away first and then put a hand to his face and rubbed it.  Was there food stuck in his beard?  He furrowed his brow in anxiety. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll win my money back,” said Bridget, as Charles re-dealt the cards.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Charles.  “This guy seems to have all the luck.”

“If everyone were so lucky,” said Warren as the tension drained from his face.  Perhaps Charles was right.  After three years of struggle, maybe his luck finally was coming around.  He tried to relax and simply enjoy the ride.

Chapter Nine

Smiley, Slim and Duke sat on the sidewalk outside the homeless shelter, watching the comings and goings of their downtrodden colleagues.  None said a word as another man dressed in rags pushed a shopping cart past them.  Neither did they comment when a police cruiser drove slowly by.  But their faces lit up as their friend Warren August came walking down the street and stopped before them.  “What’s up, boys?” Warren asked.

“Warren, my man!” said Slim, a short, heavy-set black man with a deep, throaty voice, and close-cropped hair on his round head.  “You missed dinner, where you been?”

“It’s Ok, I got some money.  Who needs a drink?” said Warren.

“You buyin’?” said Smiley.  “’Cause you know I could use a drink.”

“Come on, then, let’s go,” said Warren.

“Where’d you come up with this cash?” asked Duke suspiciously.  “You holdin’ out on us?”

“I got a job.  I’m a movie star,” Warren answered flatly.

“Sure boss,” said Smiley.  “Long as you’re buyin’ I won’t ask no questions.”

“All right, I won it playing poker,” said Warren.

“That’s more like it,” said Duke, his blind-man get-up nowhere in sight.

“Poker with who?” said Slim.

“Does it matter?” said Warren.

“Hell no, let’s go!” said Smiley, hopping to his feet.  The other two stood more slowly, stretching their creaking joints before they followed Warren up the street.

“Where we goin’ boss?” asked Slim.

“Someplace nice,” said Warren, full of the wonder and the promise of life.  It wasn’t just the money in his pocket, or the movie, or the warmth he felt inside whenever he saw Bridget.  It was all of it put together.  It was living in the present, with no concern for the future and no thoughts of the past.  Warren was taking things one day at a time, and that strategy seemed to be working quite well.  He walked with his friends for a few blocks until they were just shy of Hollywood Boulevard. 

“How far we gonna go, man?” Smiley complained.

“How about this place?” said Warren.  They stood in front of a trendy-looking restaurant, with large tinted windows set back in a distressed steel exterior.

“Are you kidding?  We can’t go in there!” said Smiley.

“Why not?” said Warren. 

“’Cause they’ll kick us out,” countered Slim.

“I thought we were goin’ to the liquor store, not some chichi place like this,” Duke complained.

“Besides, I know you ain’t got that kind of money,” said Slim.

Warren reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of $20 bills.  He fanned them out and waved them back and forth in the air.  “My money’s as good as anyone’s,” he said.

“Holy, cow!” said Smiley.

“Damn, where’d you get that?!” said Slim.

“I already told you,” said Warren with a laugh.  “Come on.”  The truth was, he’d hardly believed it himself when the payroll department handed over those crisp, clean bills.  Now he pulled open the door to the restaurant, hoping to ride this newfound sense of optimism as far as he could.  The others hesitated for a moment but then followed him through. 

Warren entered the establishment like a long lost monarch returning to his kingdom, with his head held high and the air of a man who deserved to be treated with respect and admiration.  The restaurant patrons didn’t seem to see it quite that way.  All over the room, jaws dropped.  Conversations stopped.  All eyes stared at this dirty homeless man, and at his buddies who crept in timidly behind him.

A young blonde hostess in a red dress stood awestruck behind a podium.  Warren merely breezed on past.  “We’re here for drinks, thanks,” he said, taking a seat at the bar.  “You guys coming?” he called out to his friends, who huddled sheepishly by the door.  Slim looked around at the antagonistic eyes but then shrugged and walked over.  A free drink was a free drink.  The others followed more tentatively.  The bartender was a large man with a shaved head and a tight black shirt that showed off his bulging muscles.  He eyed them warily while the hostess disappeared into the back.

“What are you fellows drinking tonight?” Warren asked.

“Anything you’re buying, chief,” said Smiley.

“Stoli’s on the rocks all around,” said Warren, but the bartender didn’t move.

“You planning to pay for these?” the bartender said.

“Of course,” said Warren.  He reached into his pocket, pulled out some money, and threw it onto the bar.  The bartender stared at the bills, considering his next move.  Finally he seemed to relent, picking up the money and walking to a cash register to ring up the four drinks.  He came back and handed Warren his change before taking four glasses and filling them each with ice.

Before the drinks were even poured, a short, stocky man in a brown suit came hustling up from a back room with the hostess trailing behind.  The veins on the man’s brow throbbed in anticipation.  His eyes were bloodshot, his teeth clenched tight, like an angry dog girding for a fight.  “What are you doing in here?  Out!  Get out of here!  Right now!” he shouted, pointing with one finger toward the door.

“What’s the problem?” said Warren, taken aback.

“The four of you.  Out!  Now!”  The man put his hands on his hips and glowered.

“Why, what’s wrong with my money?!” said Warren, growing agitated himself.

“You don’t fit the dress code!  Now move it!  You’re upsetting the customers!” hollered the manager.

“I’m one of the customers!” said Warren.  “And you’re upsetting
me
!”

“You have ten seconds to get out of that chair!”

“But I paid for the damn drinks already!” said Warren, exasperated.

“You heard the man!” said the bartender, flexing his muscles.

“Come on, Warren, we don’t need this place.  We’ll take our business elsewhere,” said Smiley.

Warren looked around the room clearly for the first time.  He saw white tablecloths and marble floors.  Expensive paintings, flowers and a swan carved in ice.  He saw men in tailored suits and women in fancy dresses, loaded down with jewelry.  In their eyes he saw fear; the fear of people with something to lose confronted by a man who had nothing.  Not even any dignity.  Warren realized once again exactly who he was.  He slid off his barstool and slowly walked out the door with his friends.

“We don’t need that place, nohow,” said Smiley when they were standing on the sidewalk.

“That’s right, let’s just go to the store,” said Slim.  “No use puttin’ on airs.  Don’t do a man no good.”

“I paid for the drinks already,” said Warren quietly before he followed the others down the street toward a blinking neon ‘Liquor’ sign.

“Warren, man, where’d you get that money, anyhow?  That must a been a hundred bucks,” said Smiley.

“I already told you, I’m a movie star,” said Warren, tired of having to explain himself.

“Come on, man.  Who’d you steal it from?’ said Slim.

“You sold that sweet sax, didn’t you?” said Smiley.

“Are you kidding?” said Duke.  “My man Warren would sell his mother before he’d sell that sax.”

“Did you sell your mother?” said Smiley.

“No man, I sold yours.  Got good money for her, too,” said Warren, his mood lifting again.

“His ain’t worth no hundred bucks, that’s for sure,” said Slim.

“That’s not what I hear,” said Warren.

“Hey, man, you leave my momma outta this!” said Smiley.

By now the restaurant incident was behind them as Warren opened the door to the liquor store for his fellow less-fortunate souls.  He walked in behind them and inhaled the smell of the place, so familiar it was oddly comforting; a strange mix of cleaning solutions, processed foods, newsprint and tobacco.

“How ‘bout some wine?” said Smiley.  “Bottle ‘a Mad Dog’s got my name on it.”