Tell-All

deadly path of a speeding omnibus.’ ”
    Still reading from Love Slave , Miss Kathie’s voice-over says, “ ‘The end.’ ”
    Bark, moo, meow
… Final curtain .
    Growl, roar, oink
… Fade to black .

ACT II, SCENE TWO
    Webb planned to kill her on this night. Tonight they had dinner reservations at the Cub Room with Alla Nazimova, Omar Sharif, Paul Robeson and … Lillian Hellman . Their plans had been to spend the afternoon together, dress late and catch a taxicab to the restaurant. Miss Kathie hands me the manuscript, telling me to sneak it back to its hiding place in Webb’s suitcase, under his shirts, but on top of his shoes, tucked tight into one corner.
    This scene begins with a very long shot of the chess pavilion atop the Kinderberg rocks. From this distance my Miss Kathie and I appear as two minute figures wandering down a path from the pavilion, dwarfed by the background of skyscrapers, lost in the huge landscape, but our voices sounding distinct and clear. Around us, a hush has fallen over the din and sirens of the city.
    Walking in the distance, the pair of us are distinct as theonly two figures that remain together. Always in the center of this very, very long shot. Around us, single, distant figures jog, skate, stroll, but Miss Kathie and I move across the visual field at the same even pace, two dots traveling in a straight line as if we were a single entity, walking in identical slow strides. In tandem. Our steps the same length.
    As our twin pinprick figures cross the wide shot, Miss Kathie’s voice says, “We can’t go to the police.”
    In response, my voice asks, Why not?
    “And we mustn’t mention this to anyone in the press, either,” says Miss Kathie.
    Her voice continues, “I will not be humiliated by a scandal.”
    It’s not a crime to write a story about someone’s demise, she says, especially not a movie star, a public figure. Of course, Miss Kathie could file a restraining order alleging Webb had abused her or made threats, but that would make this sordid episode a matter of public record. An aging film queen suckered into dyeing her hair, dieting and nightclub hopping, she’d look like the doddering fool from the Thomas Mann novella.
    Even if Webb didn’t, the tabloids would slay her.
    She and I, almost invisible in the distance, continue to move through the width of this long, long shot. Around us the park drops into twilight. Still, the paired specks of us move at the same steady speed, no more fast or more slow. As we walk, the camera tracks, always keeping us at the very center of the shot.
    A clock chimes seven times. The clock tower in the park zoo.
    The dinner reservations are for eight o’clock.
    “Webb has written the whole dreadful book,” says thevoice of Miss Kathie. “Even if I confront him, even if I avoid tonight’s conspiracy, his plot might not end here.”
    Among the ambient background sounds, we hear a passing bus, a roaring reminder of my Miss Kathie being crushed to bloody sequins. Possibly only an hour or two from now. Her movie-star auburn hair and perfect teeth, white and gleaming as the dentures of Clark Gable , would be lodged in a grinning chrome radiator grille. Her violet eyes would burst from their painted sockets and stare up from the gutter at a mob of her appalled fans.
    The evening grows darker as our tiny figures move toward the edge of the park, nearing Fifth Avenue. At one instant, all the streetlights blink on, bright.
    In that same instant, one tiny figure stops walking while the second figure takes a few more steps, moving ahead.
    The voice of Miss Kathie says, “Wait.” She says, “We have to see where this is going. We’ll have to read the second draft and the third and the fourth drafts, to see how far Webb will go to complete his awful book.”
    I must sneak this draft back into his suitcase, and every day, as Miss Kathie foils each subsequent murder attempt, we need to look for the next draft so we can anticipate the next plot. Until we can think of a solution.
    As the traffic light changes, we cross Fifth.
    Cut to the pair of us approaching Miss Kathie’s town house, a medium shot as we ascend the front steps to the door. From the street, in the second-floor window of her boudoir, we see that a hairy hand holds the curtains open a crack and bright brown eyes watch us arrive. From within the house, we hear footsteps thunder down the stairs. The front door swings open, and Mr. Westward stands in the light of the