Having been summoned by Tinseltown’s latest red-hot director, I grabbed the last of my original script and trudged across the lot to his office. As usual, Lance was behind his desk, eyes glued to the editing machine. He shut it off and looked up. “You do the changes to the ‘See No Evil’ script?”
“No.”
As he started to yell, his face got as red as the shirt he had on. “I warned the producers not to give you that much money up front! What’s the problem now?”
I flopped into the chair by his desk. “Can’t get a handle on it,” I shrugged.
Lance settled back in his chair. “What kind of handle do you need? You got my outline. Just fill in the blanks.”
“Your outline makes filling in the blanks impossible.”
“How so?”
“You want it in twenty-five words or less?”
“That would be a nice change.”
“The average guy is going to have enough trouble just trying to be your hero. You complicate his troubles by making him a James Bond type.”
“That’s twenty-six.”
“Twenty-six what?”
“Twenty-six words. You said twenty-five.”
“So fire me,” I shrugged, leaving the office. “I could use the stress reduction.”
Ten minutes later I lit the wick on on my Softail and headed to the hills for a little head clearing. Four hours later, the head was still clogged, but the body was screaming for sleep.
I called it a night.
The phone on the night table beeped.I reached for it and fell out of bed. “Hello.”
A voice from my not-to-distant past said, “Where the hell you been hiding?”
“Lance, it’s three in the morning, what’s so——“
“I’ve been trying all night. 552–“
“553–,” I corrected.
“No kidding? Must have punched–“
“Don’t give me any ideas.”
“A wrong number,” he finished.
I stifled a yawn. “Lance, you are a wrong number.”
There was a pause on his end. “Just called to let you know I”m shutting down production.”
That snapped me awake. “Say what?”
” ‘See No Evil’s’ on the shelf—-heading up to my ranch in Montana. Fresh air helps me think.”
I cleared my throat. “You’re going where?”
“Montana. You know. Big Sky Country.”
“I’ve seen the license plates, Lance. But why?”
“Time’s all wrong.”
“How’s that?”
“According to you, suave isn’t the flavor of the month—–“I was listening to my future paychecks start packing their bags.
“And since I want suave, maybe we’ll get together in a couple years and give it another shot. Ciao.”
The checks just started up the gangplank.
Since misery loves company, Taylore Dane was the first person to get a call. He answered on the fifth ring.
“Jeez, David. You know what time it is?”
I told him I did, that I didn’t think agents slept and about the call from Lance. Taylor made his usual consoling noises. “Hate to lose the money, but hey, that’s life. Let’s grab a bite at Ernie’s around ten tonight. Okay?”
“Why so late?”
“Why not? Gotta eat sometime.”
Taylor’s voice had taken on a suspicious tone. I had a mental picture of him crouched behind his phone. Shooting suspicious glances in several directions.
“Why Ernie’s?”
“Why not Ernie’s? He’s got good food.”
“You’ve never mentioned it.”
“I haven’t? Well, they say it’s really good.”
“Who?”
“Uh—–nobody.”
“Nobody said it was good?”
“No—–no. Somebody did. But they made me promise to keep my mouth shut.”
“Who did?”
“Nobody.”
I looked at the clock again. It was a little late for a Marx Brothers routine. “Okay, Taylor, Ernie’s at ten.”
The clock above the entrance at Ernie’s told me it was five to ten when I pulled into the parking lot. The place seemed kinda deserted for one of Hollywood’s supposed ‘in crowd’ hot spots. Guessed the crowd didn’t show till midnight. I padlocked the Softail near the entrance and went in.
The inside of Ernie’s reminded me of that diner in a painting by Edward Hopper—–wooden counter, shiny red leather stools, worn linoleum floor.
As I slipped into a back booth, a woman standing at the bar flashed me a smile. She had a model’s face, auburn hair, and a figure that gave calendars a reason to be printed. As she walked over to my booth, I couldn’t help but notice her black dress showed much more than it covered. Around her neck was a string of pearls. She carried a stole that looked to be purebred and tossed it carelessly on the seat across from me.
“Mind if I join you?” The voice matched the rest of the package. This woman would give great phone.
I glanced up at the clock over the bar. It said 10:05. Taylor was late. And now, he could stay that way.
She sat down. “You’re Elmo Porter.”
I’m not really. My parents call me David Browne. But David got a reputation for being ‘difficult’ a few years back, so a change of alias kept the checks rolling in. Reflecting on the last couple of days, it looked like Elmo would be hitting the bricks.
We looked at each other. She finally said, “The picture of you in ‘Variety’ wasn’t half bad.”
“Picture?”
“That one of you and Lance Robbins. You two were standing with Richard Dreyfuss and Teri Garr. Caption read, ‘Four aces should make for full houses’.”
I remembered the picture, and then I remembered why I was sitting in this booth. “That hand’s been played out.”
“Paper said Robbins is supposed to be another Orson Wells. Is he really?”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
“They say his pictures shows life the way it really is.”
“You work for this PR machine?”
She took the hint and changed the subject. “Screen writing pay pretty good?”
It has till now.
She continued. “Wish I could write.”
I shrugged. “Take some courses—-read everything you can get your hands on—–rent and watch every old film from the fifties, especially the ‘B’ black and white—–take every form of rejection known to man—–put in a dozen hard years—–“
She raised a seductive eyebrow. “My bedroom window gives a great view of the moon reflecting off the lake.”
This woman changed directions so fast she was giving me whiplash.
“You live near the lake?” I asked.
“Do we really live anywhere?” she said sadly, the smile leaving here face.
Get me a neck brace.
Cold reality had crept in, but just for a second. Her smile returned.
I leaned forward in the booth. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
She returned the lean. “Why’s that?”
“You know who I am. That puts you one jump ahead”.
She leaned back. “Do we really need names?”
Bring on the chiropractors.”Usually helps,” I said.
She looked around. “Looks like I’ve been stood up.”
“He’s blind as well as stupid,” I smiled.
“That’s sweet, ” she said, and picked my hand up in hers.
“Why don’t we go somewehre else and wait?”
“Won’t you be hard to find if you’re someplace else?”
There went that eyebrow again. “That’s the idea.”
We crossed the parking lot to a Jaguar convertible.”Yours?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Drive as good as it looks?”
She dangled the keys in front of my face like a bunch of steel carrots. “Want to see for yourself?”
Finally, a question I understood.
I took the keys, held her door open, then walked around and slid behind the wheel. After I turned things on, I reached back to raise the top.
She touched my arm, “Leave it down.”
“It’ll get a chilly.”
“That’s what this is for,” she said, wrapping the stole over her shoulders. “I love to feel the wind in my hair.”
“If you like the wind in your hair, maybe we can take a ride on my bike sometime?”
“Maybe.”She directed me to the road that circled the lake. People in town called it the Million Dollar Mile.Since the entry fee was pretty steep, the road wasn’t well-traveled. It made driving easy.I glanced at my companion in the rearview mirror, and liked the way the wind tossed her hair. “Tell me about yourself,” I said.
She smiled. “Like what?”
“Like a name. Maybe what you do.”
She put her hand on my leg. “Not much when my husband’s in town.”
My eyes caught hers in the rearview mirror, and since I wasn’t getting a name, I asked the other obvious question. “He in town now?”
“No, he’s in Shanghai.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“Right now?” She looked at her watch. “Probably sleeping. He needs a lot at his age.”
“How old is he?”
“Seventy-seven.”
Another obvious question. But this one I asked with my eyes.She gave a little shrug, then subconsciously her hand moved up and stroked the mink.I drove on a while. “Your husband’s rich?”
“Filthy. He makes money.”
“Why’s he in Shanghai?”
“Guess their money’s easier to make than ours. At his age, hard isn’t something he does well.”
“Bet that’s frustrating,” I smiled.
She smiled back. “I have ways of channelling it.” Her hand squeezed my leg.
I glanced at the rearview mirror.
The whisper changed to a scream. “Down! Get down!”
And that’s what she was doing—–sliding down to the floor, arms covering her head.
I didn’t have that lurury. Guiding 3800 pounds of English luxury sports car, I kept firmly planted in the leather seat.A dark-colored BMW pulled alongside. The windows wore the dark privacy tinting of high-priced limousines.The rear passenger window slid down about six inches. I suspected this wasn’t going to be a Grey Poupon commericial. The shiney automatic that poked it’s barrel out confirmed my suspicions.
I didn’t think. Just reacted. Hitting the brakes hard, I jerked the wheel to the right. Over the squawking tires I heard a short pop. The windshield shattered in a spider web around the neat little hole. The Jag was skidding. I freed the brake pedal and turned in the direction of the skid—–my old high school driving instructor would have been proud. Once under control, I scooted to the shoulder and stopped. The BMW wasn’t anywhere.
I reached down and touched the mink. “You okay?”
The mink moved, and came up beside me. She closed her eyes, rubbed her cheeks, and some color started to flow back into that pretty face. “Have they gone?”
“For the time being, I guess. Who are they?”
“Some of Nick’s men.”
“Nick?”
“A man I know—–knew.”
She looked past me into the darkness, the fear now gone from her eyes. I looked at the bullet hole in the winshield. “Why’d they want to kill us?”
“They didn’t.”
“That bullet hole in the windshield sure fooled me.”
“That was just a reminder.”
“A note would have been easier.”
“Nick doesn’t do notes.”
“What’s he reminding you of anyway?”
“An old promise made in days gone by.”
This mess I’d gotten into was getting nothing but messier.Nick has a funny way of remembering the old days,” I said, looking at the windshield. “An inch more to the left and we’d both be just memories.”
She shook her head. “If Nick would have told Shy to kills us, we’d be dead. That bullet hole is right where he wanted it.”
“Us? I don’t think I’m—-“
She squeezed my arm. “You’re guilty by association.”
“Association with whom?”
Her eyes met mine. “Me.”
Who says life doesn’t imitate the movies? You see plots this lame on cable at three in the morning. And I’ve had better rejected. What’s it they say about truth being stranger than fiction?
“Tell me about this Shy character who’s anything but.”
She rested her head on my shoulder. The words came out slow and deliberate. “His name is Tommy Shy. He’s Nick’s right-hand man.”
She seemed to know all the players in this game. Being the rookie, I guessed I’d get the roster later.
I looked up the road, then caught her eyes in the mirror.
“You know, I began, “With Shy somewhere up ahead, it might be better to be heading in the opposite direction.”
The Jaguar’s windshield was distorted, but I could see to drive.She sat up and shook her head. “No—–no. Let’s get to my house. Tommy’s done what he was sent for. He follows orders very well.”
I heard the urgency in her voice, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out if Tommy Shy was good at taking orders. Turning around still seemed the sane thing to do.She must have sensed my apprehension, because she slid her arms around my neck and nuzzled my ear.
Starting the Jag, I hoped my health insurance was paid up.About a mile past the entrance to the Grand Hotel, she nodded at a stone wall and an open iron gate. I turned in, and drove up the long winding driveway. From what I could see, the gardner seemed to lean toward the wild look. Long grass, tall weeds, untrimmed shrubs. Part of the driveway lead off behind the house, presumably to the garage area.
“You want me to put the car away?”
“No circle past the house and park down there. I feel like walking back.
I stopped about 150 feet from the house. On the walk back, I noticed the front porch had four columns big enough to give Samson trouble. She punched a series of buttons on the burglar alarm and the front door inched open.
The main room was as impressive as the front facade had been. Victorian furniture, oriental rugs, and a whole lot of old masters hanging aournd.
She let the stole slip to the floor. “It’s such a nice night. Let’s sit out by the pool.”
Her voice had taken on that seductive quality again. Apparently all was forgotten about the trigger-happy Tommy Shy.
I followed her out the sliding glass doors to a patio overgrown with weeds. She touched a switch, and light spilled out from under the eaves of the house. It wasn’t as romantic as moonlight, but romance wasn’t on my top ten list at the moment.
She might be sure her Shy had clocked out for the night, but I wasn’t.I sat down in one of the chairs. “Tell me about Nick.”
“What’s to tell?” she said, gazing into the trees at the edge of the pool. “He’s somebody I met in Seattle. He hates seafood, you know.”
The shadow was back over her eyes, and she had an odd little smile. “Seemed funny for someone who lived next to the ocean. Never ate anything but steak. Couldn’t get him to touch anything else,” she sighed, “but, that’s in the past.”
I didn’t get the connection. But, what the hell, that’s how it had been all night.
“That bullet hole is in the present”, I said.
“No, that’s in the past, too, compared to now.”
Looking down at me, her face took on that look a beautiful woman only wears in your dreams—-well, my dreams anyway.Next thing I knew, I had a lap full of tan legs and thighs, and her lips were kissing mine. Just as things were getting interesting, I felt her soft weight lift from my lap.She stared back at the house.
I craned my neck over the lounge chair and saw a gorilla wrapped in a monkey suit, scowling by the patio doors.”Ernesto,” she said softly, “you’re back?”
The gorilla muttered something in a low-pitched growl, then shuffled into the house.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. “What’s with him?”
She took my face in her hands, but kept looking at the house. “Ernesto’s a little overprotective. My husband got him out of El Salvador before the Army could kill him.”
“Kill him?”
“That’s what they do to so-called terrorists down there.”
“From what I read in the papers, they do that most everywhere,” I said.
She looked back at me. “It’s different down there. IF you don’t agree with the current government, you’re ‘disappeared’ and called a terrorist.”
“Ernesto tell you that?”
She shook her head. “He doesn’t say much. Not having a tongue makes conversation difficult.”
“What happened to his tongue?”
“It was ripped out.”
“Ripped out? But—–“
She leaned down and kissed my ear. “I think I’ll slip into something less confining. The night’s still young.”
Remember that neck brace? Make it a full body cast.
As she wan’t confined to the dress she was wearing, I sat back and pondered the possibilities.
A wheezing sounded behind me. The little man inside my head told me it was time to hit the deck. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Ernesto complete a follow-through with a fist that would have driven my head into my rib cage. For a big guy, he moved like a bullwhip, but he was no match for the tile around the swimming pool. He slipped, then lurched forward, trying to keep his balance. The dive was a 6.5, but he’d gained points on difficulty.
“Cool it, Ernesto,” she shouted, walking around me. Now I know what she meant by less confining. Her bikini stretched the bounds of anybody’s decency.
As Ernesto shuffled into the house. I caught her staring intently at the far end of the pool. I followed her stare and saw a body floating face down near the filter inlet. It had on a red robe and black pants. Whoever it was hadn’t dressed for a swim.
“I think it’s time we called the cops,” I said.
“I suppose you’re right.” Her look was unmoving. “Tell them it’s the Breakers. But don’t mention Tommy or Ernesto. While you’re calling, I’ll get the body out.”
I was about to mention that she should phone, but there was a slight splash, and she was gliding through the water to the far end.
I watched her, then turned and hurried through the sliding doors into the living room.
I looked around and spotted the phone on a table by an overstuffed armchair. I picked up the receiver, and a phhhht made it fly out of my hand. I crawled behind an armchair when another phhhht sounded. The third phhhht came through the back of the chair and sissed over my head, making a small hole in the wall.
The minutes ticked by, I summoned up what was left of my courage, and sneaked back to the patio.
I found her standing over the body, the handle of an ice pick sticking out of it’s chest. The face belonged to an old gentleman.
“Your husband?”
She nodded.
“Thought he was in Shanghai.”
“Guess not,” she shrugged. “You get through to the cops?”
“Nope. Your friend Shy shot the phone out of my hand.”
“You saw him?”
“Not really. Guess you could say he reached out and touched me. Long distance.”
Her eyes grew hard. “So, they’re settling it tonight.”
Not knowing what she meant, but realizing that this kind of settlement could be hazardous to my health, I suggested the Sheriff’s station over on Route Three.
“No, I’ve got a better idea,” she said, grabbing my hand. “Drive over to the Grand Hotel.”
“Yeah, right. I can call the cops from there.”
“No. Tell the desk clerk with the mustache that there’s trouble at the Breaker’s. He’ll know who to call.”
“Who?”
“Someone who can help.”
“Nick?”
Her voice had that ragged undercurrent of hysteria. “Don’t you get it? The cops are useless. And besides, time’s running out.” She jammed the car keys in my palm.
Her urgency set me in motion. Once out the front door, I sprinted towards the Jag, doing the zig-zag motion soldiers use in those war movies. If Tommy Shy was out here, I wasn’t going to give him an easy target. When I was about 50 feet away from the car, I saw a flash, felt a terrific concussion, and was blown flat on my back.
Raising my head, I saw pieces of Jaguar flying everywhere. Getting up slowly, I checked to make sure that all my pieces, unlike the car, were still attached. They were. Maybe just arranged a little differently.
I ran back through the house, yelling out to the patio, “They blew up the car!” But it was empty except for the lounge chairs.
The phone started to ring. The same phone that had been shot out of my hand. The receiver, complete with bullet hole, was back in it’s cradle.
I watched it.It kept ringing.I picked up the receiver.
A voice on the other end said, “Good-bye.”
I head the phhhht, then felt a sharp pain in the back of my head. To quote Philip Marlowe in ‘Murder My Sweet’: “a black pool opened up and I dived right in.”
When I opened my eyes, a certain dead husband was standing over me. The jacket and pants were the same, but the ice pick was missing. He was dry as a bone and carrying a drink.
“Hey, everybody,” the corpse said, “He’s coming around.”
Then I heard her voice. “You okay, lover?”
As I swung my head around, I saw other faces. These faces belonged to arms and legs that were carrying clipboards, and lugging cables and lights around.
A foot higher than the rest of the faces was Ernesto’s.
“No hard feelings, I hope,” he said.
His tongue must have grown back.
A suspicious voice behind me said, “The man’s a genius. A young Hitchcock.”
It had to be Taylor. My agent could sound suspicious buying brownies from a nun at a Catholic bake sale.
“Lance said you’d fall for it,” he continued.
“But we almost screwed up,” she frowned.
I felt the back of my head. “That’s an understatement.”
“Not that, silly,” she grinned. “The van.”
She was losing me again but what’s new?
“Van?”
“The sound van.”
“Sound?”
“For these,” she said, fingering her pearls.
I blinked at her.
“Made keeping tabs on us pretty easy.”
I wasn’t catching up, but I WAS getting irritated.
“Tabs on us for what?” I asked.
“Call it ‘filling in the blanks’.” The nasal twang sounded way too familiar. I looked around and spotted Lance standing in the corner.
“Blanks?” I asked.
“In our little screenplay,” he grinned.
Since I still didn’t have a clue as to what was going on, I decided the safest bet was to play along. I felt the back of my head. “One of those blanks have a bullet in it?”
Lance shook his head. “We didn’t shoot you. Had Ernie, Ernesto to you, give you a little love tap. Special Effects can work magic, but they draw the line at bodily harm.
“Special effects?” Lance gave me the ‘you can’t be this stupid’ look.Oh, yes, I can.
“We use ’em in the movies. Helps with the visuals,” he sighed. “I know you’ve seen them.
My irritation was slowly turning to curiosity. “What’s that got to do with tonight?”
“Everything. I set you down in the middle of a scene I’d like to see in ‘See No Evil’.”
I looked carefully around the room. Now that Lance mentioned it, it sure did look like a sound stage. But I still couldn’t believe the entire night was produced and directed.
“When did the cameras start rolling?” I asked.
“Ernie’s”
“So the girl—–?”
“Actress.”
“Her pearls———?”
“Directional microphones.”
“The Jag—–BMW—–?
“Props.”
“The bullet in the windshied—–?
“Special effects.”
“Ernesto and the dead—–live body? Tommy Shy…..?”
“Actor. Actor.” A sheepish grin. “Me.”
“You were Tommy Shy?”
Lance bowed. “Hired gun at your service.”
“Why him?”
“He was the only character you wouldn’t be seeing.”
I felt the back of my head again. “And this?”
Lance winked. “Call it stunt work.”
He smiled. “And you weren’t half bad.”
I was catching up. But slowly.
“Why?” I asked.
“Prove a point.”
“What point?”
“That I’m right, and you’re wrong.”
He was losing me again.
“Wrong about what?” I asked.
Lance slapped me on the back. “You sure looked like Mr. James friggin’ Bond to me tonight. Not quite tux-and-champagne smooth, but you weren’t any stumbling doofus either. You came up with some pretty snappy dialogue. Hope you remember some if it.?
Then he paused for what I guessed was dramatic effect.”Sure blows that little ‘average man can’t be a hero’ theory of yours all to hell, doesn’t it?”
I finally caught up.
“All this to prove me wrong?”
Lance nodded, “And to get your back on the script. I like how you write, I just need you to write it my way.”
All this happened a little over a year ago. I filled in Lance’s blanks his way, and ‘See No Evil’ became the blockbuster hit Hollywood expects from me.
I work almost exclusively with Lance now. The money’s good, and Lance covers my butt with the studio execs, so David Browne can cash his checks again.
But the major change is in my attitude. When Lance wants changes, he gets them. My hero days are over.
Oh, and one more thing. My nameless date for that evening called herself Linda Cantwell.
A couple of long rides on the Softail, and some even longer nights at her place finally got that little question answered.
