Ashes of Yesterday

Chapter 26

"Alfred," said Tom Steele, "you can't be serious. If you fire Dane that means my picture can't be finished. We're halfway through. Have you lost your mind?"

Steppson sat behind the vast expanse of his shiny desk. He had summoned Tom Steele to his office as soon as the rugged actor had stumbled onto the studio lot. Even though he was standing, Tom felt small before the studio mogul whose face was red and whose voice had raised in timbre like thunder.

"I'm thinking I want to save my studio," said Steppson. "And who do you think you are storming into my office smelling like a goddamn distillery? You're just some cowpoke from Nowheresville, Missouri. You'd still be herding doggies and planting fence posts if it wasn't for me!"

Tom scowled.

"The only reason, and I mean ONLY reason, you're still on my payroll is that I need you to finish 'High Lonesome Rider.' For your information, they've changed the script."

"Changed the script!" said Tom.

"Exactly," said Steppson. "We're writing Dane out. I'm bringing in Veda Dutcher. She'll cost me half what Dane would. And she's a helluva lot prettier, too. Have you seen her screen tests?"

"Are you crazy?" said Tom, fueled by the alcohol he'd been drinking since seven that morning. "Dane and I have chemistry, Alfred. Chemistry! You can't kill off your leading lady just because some Bible thumper is on your ass."

"It's my ass," said Steppson, "and I most certainly can. With Veda in and Dane out, I'm hoping to take some of the wind out of Buck's sails. And if you don't cut back on the booze, Tom, I'm gonna throw you to the wolves, too."

Tom looked into Steppson's eyes.

Was he bluffing?

"If this studio doesn't make a profit, we all go home. You heard about the accident on the set. They're dying to get into pictures! That's the latest headlines. I gotta move fast just to stay afloat. And if I sink, it all goes down with me. No paycheck. No nothing! That's just the way it is. Now, go sober up. I don't want you scaring Veda to death on the first day of shooting."

"We're shooting today?" asked Tom.

"Of course, you stupid drover," Steppson said. "Every minute we're not shooting, I'm losing money. Now, get out of here! And don't get into any more trouble. There's a morals clause in your contract, remember? I won't hesitate to ax you. I mean it, Tom. And that's not an idle threat."

"Yes, sir," Tom said, quickly sobering up.

"Box office or no box office," Steppson ranted, "you hicks are all alike. You think you're so special. You believe nobody can replace you. Well, I've got news for you. You're not! None of you are!"

Steppson smacked his open palm onto his desk.

"You're all just products of slick advertising and marketing. Don't believe for one second that there aren't a thousand pretty faces waiting to take your place! And they come crawling to me hungry and wanting what I got. Straighten up and fly right, or you'll find yourself sitting on the curb with Dane. Now, get out before I change my mind and give you the boot!"

Poor Dane, Tom thought, readjusting his big white cowboy hat so that the best side of his profile was seen. Too bad. She was a good kid.

As his cowboy boots tapped along the sidewalk, Tom Steele met a kid walking up to him. One of the extras, he thought. He sucked in air, letting his chest expand, and stood tall. This was how a star walked down the street, he thought. Proud. Untouched by the problems of mere mortals.

He wondered if he should send Dane a note telling her it had been nice working with her. Nah. As he signed the crinkled piece of paper shoved in front of him with the kid's stubby pencil, he smiled. His teeth were straight and white. He'd noticed a lot of his fellow actors had horrible teeth. Brown. Crooked. Looked like most of them had chewed tobacco or dipped snuff from the cradle. Even the gals.

Veda Dutcher. Steppson had said she was pretty. Well, look at Steppson's wife. The guy was a slug, but he had good taste in women, Tom thought. And Steppson held the strings to the pocketbook. All that loot and a grand dame to snuggle up to every night. Some bastards had all the luck.

Veda Dutcher.

He hoped old Veda wasn't one of that snuff-dipping-since-birth bunch. It was bad enough to have to do some of the stunts they forced him to do, but kissing a filly with bad teeth always made him want to puke.

Well, Tom thought, to hell with what Alfred the Great wanted. If she had rotten breath and gopher teeth, he'd have to take to the bottle. Call it medicinal. You couldn't have your star walking about the set with puke on his shirt. It just wasn't decent.