Ready to Rumba.

Put your hand on your hip, let your backbone slip, I hope you have your dancing shoes on. (Maisie / Part Eight)

Read Chapter Seven — Hooray for Hollywood? — here

Maisie was an accomplished dancer and a fine actress, but what I admired most about her was, she had enormous empathy . . . that she acted on (my conclusion, from the stories she told me) when she felt like it.

Hmmm. If you can turn it on and off like a light bulb, is it empathy, or manipulation? Was I one of the suckers she snickered about? Know what? I don’t give a flying fig. She brought a lot of joy into my life. She still does.

Bea Wanger had a level head, from what I know of her. What’s the story there?

Bill Fields had handed Maisie off to Bea with a bizarre chuckle. Had our cutie opened up to him? He was the sort she felt it safe to confide in, not terribly well-tethered to reality.

Bea, she was no kook. Yet, from what Mulot told me, they communicated freely. Not the maybe-I-said-it-maybe-I-didn’t run-around she commonly resorted to (the nature of her interaction with Bill Powell).

Here’s the thing: Bea yearned to be a novelist . . . ‘nuff said, right?

To build a world from scratch is crazy-making in itself. To spend years writing, not knowing if anyone will read you, much less your bank account flourished to any degree–another level of lunacy. Bea Wanger appears to have been another struggling soul, hungry for encouragement.

Like I said, half of Hollywood wants to write a screenplay. We can count Bea in on that. Maisie was the catalyst to a long contemplated stab in that direction. Bea came out of an artistically-ambitious family. Her brother a big-time producer, the idea felt right to her.

Did it end well? I hardly think so. I don’t recall seeing her name attached in any capacity to anything. Another Wanger in film credits (I read them all), I would certainly have noticed it.

She lived in the shadow of her (ultimately legendary) mogul brother. She’d made a name in the world of dance. Isadora Duncan, there’s a name I’ve heard of. Ruth St. Denis, Martha Graham, absolutely. Beatrice Wanger (aka Nadja)? Never.

To write books on modern dance was one thing, to write a best-seller or, next on her wish-list, a screenplay, had been her for-years secret dream. Maisie had found herself another whatever type. I love whatever types, open minds, imaginative thinkers.

I’m in good company.

“Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes… the ones who see things differently … You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them, because they change things — Steve Jobs

To refresh your memory: Bea had rolled her eyes.

“I caught that,” snapped Maisie. “What are you implying that you don’t have the nerve to say out loud?”

“Just this–you, quote, defend your positions vigorously, unquote. Understatement of the year, babe!”

“I don’t have the right to stick to my guns? I’m supposed to bow to a bigger-brain’s pronouncements?”

Bea sighed. “I don’t mean that and you know it. If anything, you surpass me in ingenuity, in creativity, in sheer determination. You’ve faced far more hurdles to get where you are than I have. All I’m saying is, whatever you feel compelled to contribute to a discussion, run it by me, let me be the mouthpiece. You know I’m right. Tell me I’m right.”

Maisie spat, “You’re right. Happy?”

“You get excited, loose your head, insert yourself in conversations in a highly undesirable manner.”

“I am who I am,” mumbled Maisie.

Ain’t that the truth!” mumbled Bea.

How do you construct a decent murder mystery? (I’ve watched plenty of goofy ones in the last few days.) One step at a time is how I normally operate. Don’t drive yourself crazy thinking too far ahead.

I’ve done the legwork. I’ve traipsed around the web, gathering data. I’ll leave it to Maisie and Bea to sift through it. I’m gonna go watch more thirties-era crime capers on YouTube.

Maisie and Bea, take it away.

“Have you wondered,” asked Bea, “why I haven’t been in bed the last few nights?”

“You’re a restless sleeper,” said Maisie. “You sit with the die-hards downstairs until Marigold shoos them out the door with her Closin’ the canteen, you creeps. Who’s up for a midnight mooch before he hits the road?”

“I’ve been in the den, poking through books on criminality.”

“You’re ready to rumba.”

“Damn right I am.”

The Friends of the House having, as I’ve mentioned, seen the advantage of combining their individual libraries in a clubhouse atmosphere with a well-stocked bar, had kept their volumes segregated on individually-assigned shelves.

To lay hands on works of a particular nature was a chore until Bea decreed they be ganged by subject. Anything pertaining to crime now sat together. How-To’s were particularly well represented, how to kill and get away with it, means and methods and, most importantly, how to write about it.

“We’ll need worksheets,” said Bea. “There’s a lot to this.”

“What we need, first and foremost, is to choose a victim.”

“A victim, yes. And suspects. We’re in good shape in that regard.” Bea reached for her notebook. “Listen to this. Your suspects will write themselves if you base them on your friends, who come ready-made for you, with interesting personalities and plenty of quirks. I’m on the job with the research.”

“Congrats,” muttered Maisie.

“You want,” read Bea, “enough suspects to keep your readers guessing without confusing them. Five works well. Kill off one or two along the way, winnow it down to three solid possibles. Here’s something else to think about: Provide someone for the sleuth to bounce ideas off of, otherwise you end up with him talking to himself.”

“There we go!” squealed Maisie. “That would be me, dammit! Here’s my break-out role! Not playing opposite a turban-topped rat, nor turning cartwheels on table tops. I’ve yearned for something like this.”

“You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

“Me and Billzie, we have a rapport. Little Junior Star me, intimidated by the fast company I was in, Bill went out of his way to be kind to me. On the set of Canary we were inseparable. We clicked. It was magical. Our scenes were the highlight of that flimsy flick. He thinks a lot of my ability, he told me so. Me part of this project, he’ll get behind it.

“Picture this: Bill’s his suave self. I’m his pet mouse he takes everywhere. From your notes, lady. Straight out of your own notes, I peeked at them while you showered. The sleuth has things going on in his life, a sub-plot he is forced to deal with as he investigates the crime. I’m the subplot, get it?

“Poor Bill’s on his way to being typecast as a society detective. He’s played one well-bred snoop after another. He’s got himself pigeonholed. That’s a dead end for any actor. Let’s shake that up. Me in the mix will go a long way toward humanizing him.”

“The suave sleuth totes a mouse to crime scenes? You’ll loony-ize him!”

“His wife was murdered. No, a daughter. A daughter, who he adored. I was her mouse. It consoles him to have me snuggled in his vest pocket. He’s a haunted man. He wants to protect me the way he wasn’t able to protect his child. He pretends to consult me, to throw people off balance.”

“How does this add up to a breakthrough? The cute cut-up, same as in all your pictures.”

“When von Stroheim shelled out for silk undies for his soldiers, undies no one would see, he defended it–my actors, feeling the silk, will be reminded they are part of an elite regiment. It will show on their faces. On Foolish Women, he served champagne and caviar. Why he couldn’t make do with ginger ale and blackberry jam? My actors will know the difference and the camera will know the difference.

“Bea! They talk about being in the moment. Being in the moment is about focus. I’m an expert on focus. I have to be. There’s a cat around every corner. Me, for once, in a role I can sink my teeth into, you will see a performance the like of which I’ve never given. Here’s the catch: I have to have some substantial part in the storyline. I refuse to decorate another table top. Ask me to sell another cigarette and I’ll relocate my butt back east faster than you can say Maybelle Snodgrass.”

Maisie sat for a moment, thinking over what she’d said. “No!” she squealed. “I take that back! I get my moment in the sun, I’ll be on the next train out. You’ll be rid of me!”

A warm bond, at its height during the year in Europe, had begun to cool. Money problems can do that to a relationship.

“Look, I think I can establish you as a screenwriter. How? You said it yourself–because of my drive. I predict win-win here. You’ll realize your dream, I’ll realize mine. Then, not until then, do we reassess whether we continue as a team. My shot, that’s all I ask. After that, I don’t care what happens to me. I’ll get by, always have, always will.

“I know I keep shoving this in your face, I’m sorry. No! I’m not sorry. Sooner or later, you’ve got to hear me. Where would I be if I’d listened to all them as tried to explain to me what I might expect of life? Back in that cornfield, hon. Back in that damn cornfield.

“Toss your lists. I’ve never followed rules and I ain’t about to start now. You ’n me are oil and water, frankly. You’ve got your little corner of life all staked out. You write your little tracts, you give your little lectures. Get crazy, for once. Take chances! Let’s try it my way before we resort to a formula. Who knows but that we may reinvent the genre? Wouldn’t that be thrilling?”

Bea buried her face in her hands. If you’d been there, if you’d listened closely, you’d have picked up a barely audible “Lord, give me strength.”

Read: Maisie / Part Nine / Cuckoo! Screamed the Bird in the Tree / here