A man with snow white hair and a lyrical voice guided the patterns with a practiced finesse. Fiddles skirled, the dancers circled - the girl once more came back to Casey O'Brian's arm and then the final notes swooped down to signal dance's end. Applause, foot stomps and whistles hailed the musicians. "We'll take a15 minute break, folks." The caller announced, "don't forget, - there are still raffle tickets at the concession stand - and after the break we've got a line dance coming up."
The girl fanned herself with a piece of paper, an advertisement for the dance, Casey noted. "Would you like a soda. . .?" What was her name? For a moment Casey was at a loss, then it came to him: Judy! Yes - only Judy what? That, he couldn't remember from their brief introduction of a few minutes ago.
"Yes, please." came the girl's shy reply. She's really cute, Casey thought. A terrific dancer too. From their first turn on the floor he realized that Judy was one of those rare naturals who moved as though they had been practicing together for months. He rather liked her shyness as well and found it a refreshing change from the brashness of the women he worked with at Paramount.
While wending his way to the refreshment stand, Casey started putting together little scenarios on how to get Judy's phone number without acting like he was coming on to her. She's way too good a dance partner to lose track of, he thought. On the other hand, he didn't have the time or the inclination to get into the dating scene again . . . Oh, Christ, he told himself in disgust - here you go again - worrying over details. Just ask her - and stop being such a wuss!
or Catching the bearded counter man's eye, Casey held up two fingers and pointed to the Coke sign. The man nodded while he continued to filling a row of paper cups that stretched out beside him. Casey leaned against the counter. Like so many other Friday nights, he again felt the comforting ebb and flow of conversation wash over him - the little bursts of laughter that seemed to crest like waves. He enjoyed this place. No matter how tiring the week might be, a Friday night here always seemed to revive his spirits. There was nothing fancy about it, just a big old VFW club and a bunch of ordinary folks coming together for an evening of fun, yet of all the available entertainment in LA, this had become his favorite spot to unwind.
"Hi, Casey!" A girl called. Looking up he was Irene and Steve, a young couple that attended almost every Friday. He smiled and waved at them, and at several others who were headed for the seating along the far wall. Half the people here he knew by sight, if not by name. It was the kind of comfortable anonymity that he cherished - and which he hoped wouldn't end quite as abruptly as Spear and the honchos at Paramount were talking about. They were now using terms like 'block buster' and 'smash' for "LoveStories", but, surely they couldn't know yet. The last scenes were barely in the can - the final cut still weeks away.
These thoughts he pushed aside. Hit or not, he was proud of the work he'd done in "Love Stories". It was a good film, a solid job of acting - he knew it from watching the daily's and from the comments made by Marvin Spear, one of Hollywood's toughest directors. In fact he almost hoped Spear was wrong. A good film, yes, something to build a career on, but not a smash - Casey no longer yearned for instant fame - his 5 year acquaintance with the rich and famous of Hollywood had long ago cured him of those fantasies. Turning back to see how his order was coming he watched the kids behind the counter slap hot dogs together and pour cheese over chips. Casey recognized most of them from previous nights, except for the guy pouring drinks. He was new - and not all that familiar with the Coke machine Casey realized as he watched several cups overflow. A few moments later the drinks were on the counter, "Good crowd tonight." Casey observed.
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"Yeah, not bad. Can't say I care much for country-western music, but it pulls 'em in I guess. That'll be three bucks."
As he worked his way back through the crowd Casey spotted Judy standing with a blond girl, their backs to him, heads together. Something about the blond seemed familiar. It was the way she stood, a hand on one hip. . . Almost like Melva . . . The thought crossed his mind but he brushed it aside. Melva and country music? What a laugh! Yet, as he drew nearer he heard the blond woman's voice over the buzz of the crowd. . . And it was a voice he knew all too well. Casey's name was spoken, along with a derogatory term that caused him to stop dead in his tracks. What the devil is she up to, he wondered. Stepping forward he cleared his throat and said, "Judy, here's your soda."
The girl spun, red faced and took a step backwards. Melva turned and Casey got a look at her in a form he barely recognized; her dark hair now bleached a silver blond. What a change, he thought, almost like a disguise. And not for the better, he realized. Her coloring just didn't go with that hair and the odd orange shade of lipstick she wore.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked.
"Oh, I just happened to be passing." She replied, tossing her new bright locks in an old familiar way, "It looked kinda interesting."
"Cut the crap, Melva, you wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this."
Judy stood aside looking at the two in consternation.
Melva offered up her tight little smile which to Casey spoke as plain as words: The evil bitch was here to cause trouble - he knew that the same way he knew the sun rose in the east. He glanced around expecting to see some of her security men, but instead spied Hoot standing by the door. Shit! Now she's dragging him into it. Damn her to hell! Casey suddenly felt trapped. Not even friendship was sacred when Melva decided to claim her pound of flesh.
"It's not going to happen you know, so you might as well forget it." He told her.
"There's a contract, O'Brian. You took the loot quick enough, now we get to name the product."
"Like hell you do. I returned that money twice and you refused it."
"Uh-huh, sure you did . . ." The sarcasm rolled from her lips, "tell me another, Casey - I love fairy tales."
"You know damn well I did! And if you think that cockamamie agreement will stand up in court, just try it, I dare you."
"Vitto thinks it might, anyway you signed a waver and that's good enough for me."
"Damn it, Melva, what is it about "NO" that you don't understand? It's not going to happen so just get out of my life and leave me alone!"
"Not likely Sweetheart. You owe a chunk of money, remember? We had a deal and you'll stick to it or wish you had."
Casey's Irish temper flared. "Do I have to get a court order? Two years ago you didn't give a shit, 'Hit the road' are the words I remember. Now, when it would ruin everything for me, you and Vitto want a flick, well, in your dreams baby!"
"Oh, I have dreams Case, dreams of seeing you on the small screen doing what you do best. It just so happens that right now you're worth a fortune to Vitto, so like it or not, it's time to pay the piper." Turning to Judy, Melva said, "You do know what he does best, don't you? Well let me tell you, Honey. . ."
Casey felt like decking her, but instead he quickly interrupted in a voice loud enough to override hers, "Gee, I guess we all have dreams, Melva. Mine are of you taking piss test every week. I read about the drunk driving charge. Has the old court system got you dried out yet?" That should twist her crank! Melva never could stand being ridiculed. He appraised her carefully. It was 10 o'clock and she was still stone cold sober - must be the probation, he thought.
Casey's words hit the exact spot he aimed for; Melva's face blanched before turning beet red. She fumed, practically breathing fire, but Casey didn't let up. Since they were finally face to face, he went for the showdown. "So, how did you like the drunk tank? That must have been damn exciting for you Melv, all those hulking big cops with handcuffs and nightstick's. Oh, that's right - I forgot. YOU like to do the cuffing, not the other way around."
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