Tunnels, Paths Light and Shadow.

Tunnels, Paths Light and Shadow.

By four a.m. the buzz was finally beginning to fade. It was the biggest night on the Hollywood calendar but Frank Di Livio felt nothing but tired relief as the calls for more champagne slowed from an overwhelming demand to infrequent nuisance.
The girls too had started fading back into the night. It made him sick to watch them chase after the greasy, over starched stiffs that passed for players in this town. Didn’t they have any self-respect? Is that what their dream had come to? Chasing some fat studio executive.
Frank could never bring himself to play the game. That was why he was a night porter right now and not living it up in one of the plush that cost more then he made in a month. It was his Italian blood, at least that’s what he told everyone back home when they asked, which was almost never these days. He couldn’t suck up to those slime balls just to get some crummy walk on. He had more talent then any of those fakes he’d seen collecting awards earlier but he had too much dignity. In a way he could look down on those big shots, he could say he never bent backwards for anyone. He could still look them all in the eye.
It was 1947 already and Frank had been out west ever since his discharge from the infantry. California seemed like another planet compared with Chicago. It hadn’t taken long to discover what a twisted, incestuous town this was and bitterness had set in early. Those Goddamn Jews wouldn’t give a guinea a brake so he had taken the job at the Plaza, not just for the paycheque but because this was where they all stayed sooner or later and someone was sure to spot his star potential. That was three years ago and they’d seen his potential alright, they could see straight away that he was the guy to call if they wanted another mint on their pillow.
It was the second time in his three years that the Plaza had hosted the awards but once again he had been universally ignored as he filled their plates and freshened their drinks. Now he would be glad to see the back of them and their callous entourages. His double shift was just about done and he was looking forward to three hours in bed before he had to get up for his first call back in a year. Blowing it off was not an option, it was a small part, three lines before he had his stomach shot out, but the guy that was attached to do the shooting was Mickey Durrell. The same guy that was polishing a gold statue on the sixth floor right now. That meant exposure and he knew that they’d get on well around the set. It could lead to big things.
“Frank, hey Frank!”
He looked around slowly, knowing what he would see but stealing himself, he still needed this job. Hector loved his job about as much as he hated Frank and his fat little face was grinning brightly revealing the filed grey stumps that passed as teeth in his world. Hector worked the desk like he had a direct line to God. Frank reckoned that if they let him the monomaniac would sit there putting calls through for big shots twenty four hours a day.
“Frank, you alive over there?”
“Yea Hector, I’m alive. Whatta you want?”
The nefarious grin grew even wider and Frank wondered if even a mother could love that face. “What I want hardly comes into it…”
“Just spit it out Hector, it’s been a long goddamn night.”
His piggy eyes lit up: “Frank, that language is inappropriate for a man under the employment of such a prestigious institution. If you continue with such profanity then I shall be forced to report you.”
“Cut the crap,” said Frank. Hector’s face turned to stone, his smile dropping like a mask and Frank suppressed a grin of his own as his pudgy cheeks coloured a deep unhealthy red.
“You will collect a message from Mr.Durrell in room six thirty one. You will take this message without delay up to the penthouse suit where you are going to hand it over to Mr.Goldstein. Do you understand or shall I write that down for you?”
“No, I got it.”
“Good because you know what an important client Mr.Goldstein is to this hotel. I would hate to hear that he was unhappy with the service you provide. It could result in a re-evaluation of your position here in the Plaza family.”
Frank held his tongue as he passed the desk on his way to the elevator. No point in making things any worse then they had to be but that little spot at the desk wouldn’t be able to pull that threat on him much longer. He was going to make the part his later that day and then he was going to come down here and smack Hector square in the jaw. That would be worth three years of listening to his whiny voice.
An old black guy who went by the name of Stitch manned the elevator. He was a quiet man who did his duty and was the epitome of inconspicuous servitude. He was as much a part of the hotel as the walls that held the joint up.
“Hey Stitch, I’m gonna need six then all the way up to the big time.”
“You got it Mr.Me-lan.” Stitch had names for all the staff. Frank had come out of Naples with his family when he was eight but if old Stitch wanted Milan then Milan it was.
“Here you go sir, the sixth floor. I’ll keep her here.”
“Thanks Stitch. Back in a minute.”
The carpets were a rich red and so plush that as Frank walked his shoes sunk a full half inch. The entire hotel had an atmosphere of money well spent. No corner had been cut and the evidence was there to see on the guests’ bill at the end of their stay.
Six thirty one. Frank knocked twice and stood hands behind back waiting for a reply. He was reaching out to knock again when the door swung open. Standing erect in the doorway with a cigarette gripped firmly between his false teeth was Mickey Durrell looking like he just stepped off the set of his latest movie. His dressing gown was tied firmly at the waste hiding the bulge that was the inevitable result of years of pampering. His dark hair was slicked back, moulded to his scalp and the trade mark pencil moustache looked freshly clipped. His confident erudite manner came from years of faking it and not, as he liked to boast, from a degree earned at Oxford.
“Good evening sir. I have been instructed to help you in any way I can.”
Mickey flashed his supercilious grin and took a moment to examine Frank from head to toe with a critical eye before disappearing back inside the room. A few moments passed before he returned with a white envelope, which he handed over. Frank got a hold of it but on gripping it he felt Mickey stoke his hand with his index finger. Not too hard but with enough emphasis so there would be no misinterpretation. Sometimes this was a dirty business, Frank knew that and so he put a lid on his revulsion and took his chance.
“Mr Durrell…”
“Mickey, please, call me Mickey.”
“Er, yea sure, well Mickey, it’s kinda funny me seeing you like this ‘cause you and me, we might be working together in a few weeks. Hopefully, if everything pans out.”
Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Really, I have no plans of going into the hotel business, though those studio bosses can be ever so erratic.” He laughed throatily and waited for an acknowledgement of his wit from Frank.
Frank smiled weakly and said, “Well sir…Mickey, what I mean to say is that I got a call back for your next movie, so we could be working together real soon.”
“What a pleasure that would be,” Mickey said. “You be sure and mention that to Mr.Goldstein, after all it’s his picture. I’ll put in a good word for you. It’s the least I can do for dragging you up here at this time of night.”
“Well sir, that would be real swell, just fine. Thank you sir, I really appreciate that and congratulations on your award tonight, you really deserved it.”
Durrell smiled wanly, “Your too kind. Mr.Goldstein will look after your tip.” Frank was already backing away from the door, trying to get away before his luck ran out.
“That won’t be necessary sir, you have a good night now and if you need anything else don’t hesitate to ring down and ask for me personally. Frank, Frank Di Livio.”
“Okay, great name Frank. Mr.Goldstein will give you all you need.” The door swung shut and Frank was left alone with his thoughts. What had he seen in Durrell’s eyes as the door had swung shut? Was it malicious? Could be the pompous snob was yanking his chain but what the hell, it was always worth a shot.
He looked at the envelope in his hands and wondered at its contents. He forgot his own aspirations as his imagination spun numerous different scenarios. The letter had to be something important. It was from the world’s hottest actor to the world’s biggest movie mogul at four in the morning. It was bound to be juicy. He turned it over in his hands and was stunned to see that Durrell had failed to seal the letter. It was late and he was probably tired, maybe drunk to boot but gees, that was slack.
He would get sacked on the spot if he did what he was thinking of doing, not to mention getting in deep water with two of the most powerful men in Hollywood, but the information inside could give him a vital edge. No one was beyond a little blackmail in this business and this could be dynamite. He could forget that lousy part he was up for and demand a serious role.
The temptation was too great and with one final furtive glance around the hallway he slid the paper from the crisp envelope. It had been folded meticulously and he grimaced as the smell of cologne wafted up into his face. Walking slowly back to the lift he began to read.

Ira,
Congratulations on your phenomenal success tonight, as ever my good fortune is completely down to your expert guidance and tutelage. So sorry that we had no chance to talk this evening but you know more then anyone what an utter bore it can be to escape the clutches of some of these vultures!
Poor old Emy! I’m sure we shan’t hear the end of that for the rest of the year, (ho-ho). I really don’t think she fits the bill for ‘Dog’s’, do you? My God that hair! And her voice does grate so.

Frank had reached the elevator and noticed Stitch avoid his gaze with consummate professionalism at the same time making it patently clear that he had noted Frank’s indiscretion.
“Penthouse wasn’t it Me-lan.”
“Got it in one Stitch,” said Frank, noting the loss of mister. They stood in uncomfortable silence as the lift drew them ever up, the only sound being the occasional crackle of the note as Frank did his best to keep it out of sight down by his side. They slowed to a stand still and Stitch pulled the inner door open. “Much obliged, I’ll be just a couple minutes okay?” But Stitch didn’t reply. He shut the gate and cranked his control lever without so much as a word.
“Touchy old bastard,” Frank muttered under his breath. It was a shame though because Stitch was without doubt the most genuine person working in the hotel. It felt strangely uncomfortable to get on his bad side, like swimming against the tide or carving against the grain. An unexpected wash of panic swept over him and was gone just as quickly, leaving him with a light sweat and a notion of foolishness. Dismissing the unpleasantness he read on.

Anyway, the night is getting old and I am sure that you are desperate to find out what I will send as a thank you present. I know it is going to be tough to top last years prize, that little blond was a real goer wasn’t she, but this time I hope to God those insolent plods don’t hang around lousing up the atmosphere for so long.

Frank felt queasy, which was not something he usually experienced. What was Durrell talking about? This sounded bad, anything involving the cops sounded bad to Frank, whose youth had been peppered with a string of incidents that had given him a good insight into just how bad. What the hell did these two have going on? He noticed that he had reached the door to the penthouse suit but he had to finish reading the letter before he could decide what to do. If this was serious then he would go to the police and damn the job. Before looking back to the paper he thought he caught a glimpse of movement in the peephole but it could have been anything.

So here he is, his name is Frank, (hi Frank!), and Frank here wants to be an actor. Well I don’t know about that but what I do know is that you are sure to make him the star tonight. Have fun darling and do try not to make too much of a mess,
Ever your servant,
Mickey.

p.s. don’t forget, removal men come calling at six o’clock sharp! Have fun.

The letter dropped from Frank’s hand as his mind tried to comprehend what was happening. It had to be some kind of joke. As he stared straight ahead, unsure of what to do, the door to the penthouse swung open and classical music filled the air. Barber of Seville, thought Frank madly, that was his favourite. He was so stunned that he did not even resist the meaty hand that reached out to grab him. Grasping a fistful of his uniform it dragged him in to the dark spacious penthouse.


End