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When Elvira Met Bettie Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2022-12-06 23:59:01 +0000 UTCIrvin Ashkenazy—Izzy Ashcan for short—was perhaps the hardest working press agent in show business, if not the most successful. He’d gotten some traction in Hollywood, but no big victories he could point to. His clients were professional and hard-working… they made their way up to a certain amount of standing in the industry… but they never seemed to blow up, to go from character actor or one-hit wonder to a real breakout.
And he wanted a breakout—a star, an idol. His plan was to make a girl into a sensation, a one-woman Spice Girls adored by millions… which would make him millions. A triple threat—singing, acting, and sex—that would crack the glass ceiling in Hollywood as well as dominating the New York-Chicago-Miami-Vegas scene he already swam in.
Izzy’s clients were mainly singers, DJs, theater actors, and a few local TV personalities. He wanted this it-girl to break into prestige TV and blockbuster films. No more small-fry stuff to keep the bills under control; he wanted fuck-you money. He wanted a talent that could go from headlining a movie to going on tour to holding down a Vegas residency. He’d had enough of lounge acts and opening numbers. He wanted a moneymaker.
Bettie Page was a budding talent, destined to follow in her famous mentor’s footsteps. So said one critic after she formed a double act with Old Hollywood talent Babs Mahoney. Shortly before her death, Bettie had backed Babs up at concert after concert as they sang about love and sisterhood, stressing their friendship until the two seemed inseparable… with Bettie a natural successor now that Mahoney was on the way out.
The truth was something else entirely: Babs Mahoney had been a pill-popping loon who had no time for friendship—barely had time to pose for paparazzi snaps of her and Bettie ‘together.’ The closest they came to really socializing was when Babs was in the hospital, drying out or recovering from another plastic surgery that, at her age, was just a layer of lipstick on a pig.
Bettie was nice enough to always put in an appearance and try to lift Babs’ spirits, but she never got anything out of it but more of Babs’ distaste for her. Hatred for her youth and beauty when Babs was running empty on both.
Bettie had tried to break free of her, headlining a Broadway show. She’d triumphed, according to all the critics, but the show had flopped. Now Izzy had her aimed at Vegas. Full time, big show, top money. With Babs finally in the ground, they were putting on a retrospective with Bettie redoing all her old hits. Izzy hoped that would keep her name in the papers until something really big opened up.
She was a sweet girl: pretty, slender, with some bodacious curves that seemed just the right amount for her gentle smile and sparkling eyes. Another girl might seem whorish with the figure Bettie had, but Page made it look like all her good looks were some happy accident. She was cute as any honey-haired baby girl, as wholesome as a kid sister, with just a touch of devilry when she made that happy smile slink and those heavy hips wag.
Izzy knew that the naughtiness was only for show. She was as hard-working a gal as any pilgrim could ask for. Bettie did nothing but rehearse-rehearse-rehearse even when her looks could have a dozen guys vying to take her out for steak dinner every night.
Izzy had known she was his golden ticket. He’d worked his buns off, hustling all over Vegas, Miami, and New York to strike while the iron was hot and cash in on any possible nostalgia cropping up from Babs Mahoney’s funeral. And in the cash went. The director was hired, the dancers readied, the songs chosen, the date announced. Now all that was left was for Bettie to be perfect.
***
Bettie came home to her tiny, suitable apartment. She fed her cat, switched on the TV, and curled up on the couch with a bag of deli dinner. It’d been another rough day—no matter how much they told her that rehearsals were for ironing everything out, for learning and memorizing and getting comfortable with the steps in the back of her head—she still believed that by now, she should have everything down pat.
When she fell short of the unimpeachable perfection she knew she needed by opening night, she wondered if she wasn’t another Babs Mahoney. Slacking off on the effort because she could rely instead on good looks and forgiving men.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would be better. She’d be so good, she could do the part in a nun’s habit and all the men in the audience would still applaud.
She ate her sandwich while watching a rerun of I Love Lucy. Watching Lucy’s own foibles with fame and fortune relaxed her a bit. People still loved Lucy, no matter how much she screwed up. Maybe they could tell how much Mrs. Richardo simply wanted nice things for herself and her friends.
Just as the show gave way to closing credits, the phone rang. Bettie picked it up, making an “Mmmhmm?” sound before she resumed chewing with the mouthpiece away from her gnashing teeth.
“Bettie, it’s Izzy. I got great news for you, doll, great news! You know Gordon Vought, the big movie producer? He’s got a picture he’s lensing this weekend—something about cavewomen and dinosaurs—but the co-lead dropped out. Suicide attempt or something. If you want the part, baby, it’s yours!”
Bettie gulped her mouthful of sandwich. “A movie? Gordon Vought? Izzy, what about the show, Vegas…”
“It’s shooting for less than a week, dollface, you’ll be back with time to spare. You just show up, put on a little outfit, say your lines, and you’re back home. They’re paying a couple thou, you get your name in lights, you’ll be right beside Elvira on the poster!”
“El Who?” Bettie asked, wondering what would be the point of doing a movie if it only showed in Mexico. She didn’t know any Mexican film stars who’d made it big up in Hollywood…
“I don’t know, maybe it’s Vampira or something. She’s screwing the director, what can I tell you? She’ll do all the heavy lifting, you just stand there and look stunning. Once people get a look at you, they’ll be begging for more.”
“So… so we’re not doing the Vegas show?” Bettie asked in breathless confusion. “Because I think I really should get the choreography down…”
“Bets, don’t worry about the choreography now, worry about learning your lines! I’ll have a script ready for you on the plane. Get a bag packed, get to the airport, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and if Gordon finds another girl, that’s it, you’re gone!”
“Okay, alrighty, I’ll get packed now,” Bettie assured him. “Wait, are you going to be at the airport?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a little change invested in the project—that’s how come I could whisper your name in Gordon’s ear. I’ll see what I can do about beefing up your part once we get there. We play our cards right, we might call off the Vegas thing altogether and have you headlining your own feature! Gordon’s filming another movie right after this one—it’s about spacemen—we show him you’re not just another pretty face, and that Vampirella is on the way out while you’re all the way in! I love it!”
Bettie thought about it.
She decided she loved it too.
***
Izzy was one of those baby-faced guys who looked small and young, even when he was in his forties. His hair was stylishly full, a mass of curls down to his earlobes, and Bettie found him very handsome. His hair was a dark red, but he seemed to tan easily. Wearing slacks and an A-shirt, his arms and neck were as brown as they could get. Bettie’s eyes moved down his back while he faced away from her, focusing on the tightness of his slacks. A smile spread over her lips as she thought of all sorts of things.
He turned to look at her, finally, setting aside whatever he’d been staring into the middle distance about, and Bettie knew he was seeing her as he’d seen her the other night, touching her so intimately with his clever little fingers while he looked on, eyes blinking every facet of her pleasure into his memory. Think about it! she thought hard at him.
“Will there be a lot of restaurants where we’ve doing the shoot?” she asked. “Or maybe a kitchen? I could cook.”
“I don’t know. We’ll just have to see when we get there.” Then, without even any guilt to be seen, Izzy looked past her and lit up with a big smile. “Elvira, there you are!”
So, he’d managed to remember her name. Bettie turned around, expecting to find some kind of femme fatale—a stacked, bleached blonde with oodles of legs and maybe a feathered boa. She wasn’t expecting a member of the Addams Family.
“Hey there, Izzy. Some favor I’m doing you, huh? Be a dear and go get my luggage—can’t let some cabbie have all the fun, huh?” Elvira’s eyes went to Bettie. “You wanna lend a hand, sweetie? It’s called gender equality: look it up.”
Bettie felt suddenly that assisting this ‘Elvira’ would be absolutely deplorable. “I just did my nails,” she lied.
Elvira looked them over. “Not bad. You’ll have to scratch me with them sometime. So, you and ol’ Ashcan, huh? He sure knows how to pick ‘em. Wish he was as good at the ponies. I’ve lost a sawbuck on his hot tips. And usually I have a lot of fun getting a hot tip from a stallion…”
“I thought it was donkeys,” Gordon Vought said, moving to join them. “That is the custom down in Mexico, right? Or is that just for tourists?”
He was a squat, stocky man of average height, but didn’t come across as short. There was something immensely powerful about him, with his thick arms and neck like a brick chimney. He had short, slicked-back brown hair and a broad, flat face to go with the crisp business suit he wore.
“You’re the only stallion I’ll need anymore,” Elvira greeted him warmly, giving him a puckered kiss on the cheek. “You and maybe a few critics…”
“Are we ready to get under way?” the pilot, Danny Cannon, asked.
He was a handsome man: six feet straight up, broad-shouldered, with light hair and warm hazel eyes. He wore tight white shorts and a polo shirt that was unbuttoned to his chest hair, showing a deep tan that matched the brawny bronze of his long, strong legs. His features were even, almost perfect—the hair on his head turned almost white by the sun—while his body hair, aside from on his chest, had turned so colorless that it was nearly invisible, giving him a slender boyishness on his arms and legs. The way it worked out, with the hints of overt masculinity but the air of seductive androgyny, could’ve made him a teen idol.
But there was something off about how his eyes raked Elvira and Bettie in considering all the passengers he would be carrying. Elvira had a sense for the weird ones and Danny pinged the part of her that the Plague Doctor had just been inside.
She wondered if he’d done any killing or if he just taxidermied roadkill. She’d gotten her hopes up so many times before, but there really weren’t that many psychopaths in Hollywood. Just Jews.
“I’m ready!” Bettie said, holding up her overnight bag.
She wasn’t taking much—knowing how Gordon ran his productions, she’d probably be spending all her time in costume, catching a few hours of sleep where she could, then back to business. Plenty of her friends had complained about being worked to the bone, but plenty of them had also been discovered, parlaying Gordon’s goddess-like treatment of their exposed bodies into a pretty-girl role on this TV show or that movie. One of them had even ended up sleeping with James Bond…
“I think we could all go for being strapped in,” Elvira quipped, turning her head to watch Izzy and her cabbie packing some of her bags into the plane. “Put a move on, would ya? We haven’t got all day here!” She looked back at Gordon and Bettie. “The nerve of some people, gold-bricking like you wouldn’t believe…”
***
Four hours into the flight, pilot Danny Cannon noticed his instrumentation fluttering. Dials went from one reading to another, contrary reading with no provocation—telling him that his air speed was ten knots higher than it supposedly was a moment later, or that his altitude was off by fifty feet.
It had to be a loose wire somewhere. Probably nothing serious. He thought of pressing on for the remaining three hours of the trip and having the old lady inspected when they arrived, but the words of his flight instructor rang in his head: Mind your instruments. That’s what they’re there for. If they say something’s wrong, you either need new instruments or a new something else.
He announced to his passengers that they would be setting down at an airstrip he knew. It would most likely be deserted, but he’d still be able to check under the hood and see if there was anything seriously wrong or if the heap would hold together until their destination.
Problem being that it had started snowing when they were in the air. It was nothing for the Cessna to fly through, but it might make landing tricky. Danny overflew the primitive landing strip—still not much more than a clearing in the shape of a runway. It had not been paved or maybe even touched since the last time he’d visited, and that was years ago.
But it didn’t matter. If necessary, he could call via radio and get supplies sent by the roadways, then get back into the air.
Danny tried to judge just how much snow had accumulated on the ground. He could still see the strip with its slightly cocked rectangular outline, but the snow lay at least heavy enough to hide the wheel ruts of old landings. It made him wonder when the last touchdown had been. This was starting to feel like a gamble to Danny, but he’d already told the paying customers they were getting a landing, so by God, they were going down!
Carefully, Cannon turned into the wind and began to ease the plane down, keeping the nose high so that the main gear would hit the surface first. He skimmed the surface of the fresh snow, his hand on the throttle. Ready to either kill power or bring it up to full.
The wheels crunched into the snow, but instead of meeting the resistance that would buoy the descent, the plane angled forward… wheels sinking deep into the soft, wet powder… telling Danny the snow was deep enough to snare the wheels. The aircraft nosed over sharply.
Cursing, Danny slammed the throttle forward and switched off the ignition, just before the plane’s nose dug into a slurry of snow and mud. Then the plane somersaulted over, ending upside down in that half-frozen muck, the wreckage losing gears and wings as it slowly came to a halt.
Comments
Shendude
Bit of scene setting, very nice
