Final Curtain by R. T. Jordan Read Free Book Online Page B

“Please come in!” Tim and Placenta followed.
    “You’re not opening your wrists in the tub, I see,” Polly said as she moved past Charlotte and into the apartment. “It only seems like the end of the world, hon. You’ll get a better job.”
    The interior of the building—at least Charlotte’s unit—was the polar opposite of the exterior. Charlotte’s small apartment was clean, although extremely cluttered, and boasted calming cream-colored walls and dated cottage cheese ceilings. The furniture wasn’t new, but it was well crafted and heirloom quality. A Persian rug accented the floor, and framed, autographed eight-by-ten black-and-white pictures of famous Hollywood stars were neatly arranged on tables throughout the living room. Polly and her entourage were impressed and each said as much to Charlotte as she offered them a drink.
    “Maybe a teensy flute of champagne,” Polly suggested.
    Charlotte laughed. “Safeway-brand red table wine is about as good as it gets in this house. I can get a whole case for the cost of a bottle of the brand of champagne that the National Peeper says you suck down night after night.”
    Polly tittered. “As long as the wine isn’t poured from a box!”
    “You haven’t lived until you’ve enjoyed Chateau Walgreen’s!” Charlotte peeled with more laughter. “The twelve-thirty P.M . reserve vintage is très extraordinaire !”
    “With a screw-on cap and expiration date on the label?” Polly joked.
    “A skull and crossbones, too! Right next to the surgeon general’s warnings about side effects from prolonged exposure to the fumes!”
    Polly could only hope that she was kidding.
    “Sit, sit, sit,” Charlotte insisted as she turned off the television, which was showing an old movie on TCM. She moved into the kitchen—which was actually part of the large open room, divided from the living space by a bar counter—and brought out wineglasses from a cupboard. When she reached for a bottle, Polly gave a silent sigh of relief to see that it required a corkscrew.
    “Haven’t got any brie and crackers or hors d’oeuvreez,” Charlotte apologized. “But this is actually a good bottle that I’ve saved for a special occasion. And what could be more special than a visit from TV’s greatest star ever? Oh, listen to me, I’m sounding like a fan. Which of course I am !”
    Polly smiled. “I’ll bet you say that to MTM and Carole B. too. But please keep stroking—said the bishop to the nun—’cause I never get such attention at home!”
    Charlotte regained her composure. “This wine came from Maureen Stapleton’s cellar. Most of what I have comes from dead celebrity estate sales. The old-timers are dropping off so fast, there are one or two such sales almost every month. I can hardly keep up.”
    As Charlotte handed the drinks to her guests, Polly wondered which dead star once owned the sofa on which she was seated, and who, she asked herself, previously sipped from the glass she now held in her hand? As if reading Polly’s thoughts, Charlotte pointed to the sofa and said, “Shelley Winters. Feel the dent where she sat?” She then lifted her glass and tapped the nail of her index finger against the side and made a ping sound. “Richard Dawson.” She frowned. “No, that can’t be right. I think he’s still with us. Oh, I know, June Allyson. See what I mean? It’s impossible to keep up!”
    “After the day we’ve had, this is just what the doctor ordered, eh?” Polly raised her glass to Charlotte. “I still can’t believe that no-talent maniac Gerold Goss canned you and Hiroaki. Hands down, you would have stolen the show. Even from me!”
    Charlotte smiled. “No way. You’re the star! You’re the living legend that audiences want to see. I’m just a supporting player. Although I do have some good lines, don’t I?” Charlotte spoke with an air of self-assurance. “By the way, I’ve been unfired , or whatever the word is for getting my job