Dead Space

by Lee Goldberg

  Charlie opened the door. "Good-evening, ma'am."

  Susie sashayed into the room past Charlie, fanning herself with the script. "This script is so hot, I get blisters on my fingers every time I pick it up."

  Nick smiled. "That's a good note."

  Charlie sat on the arm of a chair and watched the show.

  "All it needs is a stronger, final moment for Electra," she said.

  Nick folded his arms under his chest. Charlie expected to see the fur start to squirm. "What kind of moment?"

  Susie opened the script and leaned in close to Nick, so her breast brushed his arm. "In her final scene, Electra's doing the strip tease at the club and accidentally steps into the assassin's line of fire, taking a bullet meant for Trent Zane."

  "She falls off the stage into the cop's arms," Nick said. "Naked, dead, bloodsoaked, a powerful metaphor for his addiction and his guilt."

  "I think before she dies," Susie said, "she should say something."

  "Ouch?" Charlie suggested.

  Susie turned, noticing Charlie for the first time. "Who's he?"

  "The butler," Nick took the script and, pretending to study it, walked away from Charlie towards the bedroom. "You might be on to something, Susie. What sort of beat did you have in mind?"

  Susie rushed up behind him, pressing herself against his back on the pretense of peering at the script in his hands. "Before I die, I tell him that I'm carrying his baby."

  Nick shook his head. "Too melodramatic. But I know what you're going for."

  A close-up and one last chance to steal a scene, Charlie thought.

  "You want an emotional moment that resonates," Nick paced. "What if..." He tossed the script on the floor and whirled around to face Susie, as if spun by the sheer force of his mighty inspiration.

  "I got it. She takes the bullet while doing a lap dance for him. Intimate. Close. Grinding. They're both writhing in ecstasy, the tempo of the music going faster and faster. Jungle drums. Electric guitars. They're both about to climax and blammo. She's shot.

  "Yes," she panted.

  "Then, in a tight close up, with her dying breath she says: 'I came.' And she dies." Nick said. "We intertwine the intimacy of life and death in one remarkable, cinematic moment."

  "Wow," she said. "That resonates."

  Nick's face suddenly soured. "I just don't see it yet. I think we need to work on the scene, act it out a few times, see if it really plays."

  She smiled coyly and glanced in Charlie's direction. "Here?"

  Nick motioned towards the bedroom. "Make yourself comfortable, find the soul of the scene, I'll be right with you."

  She went into the bedroom. Something occurred to Nick.

  "You like pineapples, don't you?" Nick called after her.

  "Sure," she replied.

  Nick turned to Charlie.

  "You better turn up the TV, it's going to be noisy," Nick winked and disappeared into the bedroom.

  The conversation Charlie just overheard was already too much to bear. He reached for the remote, turned on the television, and searched the airwaves for a good Adam-12 or Police Story rerun, but settled on the only show that wasn't an infomercial, something cheesy from the 1960s.

  The starship Endeavor left the orbit of the big, green planet and headed for deepest, darkest space.

  On the bridge, Mr. Snork and Dr. Kelvin stood on either side of Captain Pierce's command chair.

  "I'd like to come back here in a few light years and see how everything turned out," Captain Pierce said.

  Dr. Kelvin stared at the main view screen as the planet receded from view. "Imagine, an entire planet modeling its society on an ancient Playboy magazine."

  "Fascinating, indeed," Mr. Snork agreed, scratching his elephant nose. "The females even evolved with staples across their waists. Think what might have happened if the merchant ship had crash-landed with a cargo of those ancient Three Stooges movies instead."

  "One discarded cultural artifact can reshape a species, a planet, an entire galaxy," Dr. Kelvin's breasts heaved, computing the possibilities.

  "Oh no," Captain Pierce slowly rose from his seat.

  "What is it, sir?" Mr. Snork snortled.

  "I left a pair of bikini briefs in the Queen's boudoir.."

  "Your herculite briefs?" Dr. Kelvin asked, suddenly very concerned. The Captain nodded gravely. "Herculite is the basic material from which Argulon is formulated..."

  "And Argulon is the basic component of our Totonian warp drive," Captain Pierce said.

  Dr. Snork stared at his Captain. "Are you saying because you left your underwear on the planet, the aliens could develop warp drive and colonize the cosmos?"

  Captain Pierce looked grim. "I'm saying in a hundred light years, they may be wearing the pants in this universe."

  And on Captain Pierce's laughter, Mr. Snork's consternation, and Dr. Kelvin's puzzlement...

  The scene abruptly freeze-framed. The music swelled and the words "Executive Producer Conrad Stipe" flashed across the screen.

  Charlie groaned and switched to an infomercial. Tom Bosley sat on a couch, listening intently to three men extolling the virtues of R-788, a creme that cured impotence.

  "Now I have the zest and vigor of a 16-year-old," one man proclaimed.

  Tom turned to the camera. "And that's not all — it's a great for dandruff and those pesky insect bites, too!"

  Chapter Seven

  There were no customers for R-788 in Nick Alamogordo's bedroom. Nick sat on the edge of the bed, while Susie Glot took an enthusiastic spin on his lucky barstool. Nick was pretty certain the scene would work. It worked for him.

  He thought it worked for her, too, but if he was a better student of her oeuvre, he would have recognized her shrieking, writhing, grab-your-chest-hair-with-both-fists-and-hold-on-for-dear-life orgasm from her performance in the erotic thriller Cheek To Cheek.

  He was still catching his breath from his own simpering, whimpering, huffing orgasm, and only beginning to notice the stinging sensation from his yanked out chest hair, when the phone rang. Nick instinctively reached for it, forgetting for the moment that a vital part of his anatomy was still wearing an actress.

  "Was it as good for you as it was for us?" Clive Odett asked him.

  "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "You're much better at writing sex scenes than performing them. You grunt like a pig. Not very erotic."

  "You don't know shit, Odett." Nick said.

  "You're holding the phone in your right hand," Odett said, "and clutching Susie's ass with the other."

  Nick immediately let go of Susie's buttock.

  "Now you've let go of her ass and your jaw is hanging open," Odett said.

  Nick closed his mouth, his eyes darting around the room.

  "There's a camera in Susie's evening bag, which is transmitting to a truck outside the hotel, which is beaming it via satellite into my office, where we recorded your little method acting session."

  Nick looked at Susie, who climbed off his collapsing barstool with an apologetic shrug. "He's my agent."

  She smiled and waved at the evening bag on the dresser. "Hi, Mr. Odett. How's the weather in LA?"

  "You can tell her it's a bit windy," Odett said.

  "Fuck you," Nick pulled his bathrobe self-consciously over his lap and glared at the evening bag. "What's the matter, the burning fish drink not getting it up for you?"

  "A copy of this tape will be messengered to your wife within the hour."

  Nick glanced at Susie, who was examining her rock-solid breasts in the mirror.

  "Go ahead," Nick said, trying to sound casual, or at least as casual as someone can sound sitting naked on his bed, talking to an evening bag.

  "Your wife will divorce you and get 50% of everything, and we'll help her find all the money she's entitled to," Odett said. "Then there's the alimony. Balance that loss against future earnings with another agency and ask yourself, is it really worth it not to be a Company client?" />
  "I thought you wanted to kill me."

  "I don't want to kill you, I want to own you," Odett replied. "You're worth a lot more to us alive. I have an agent in the building with the papers. All you have to do is sign."

  Nick glanced again at Susie, bending over to pick up her dress, and came to a decision.

  "You want me back, you have to do something for me."

  "I thought we just did."

  Nick told him what he wanted, hung up the phone, then got up and tossed the evening bag into the trash can. He turned to Susie and smiled lasciviously.

  "Do you like macadamian nuts, Susie?"

  * * * * * *

  Kimberly Woodrell drove her jet black Jaguar convertible, which was leased to director Marcus Dolen until Gun Point tanked on opening weekend, up the Pacific Coast Highway that night to her Malibu beach house, which had belonged to producer Scott Devereaux before his wife caught him in bed with two of his development execs.

  It didn't bother Kim that everything she had once belonged to someone else. The business was just a bunch of hermit crabs scurrying around for cast-off shells to inhabit, and she was fine with that. More over, she was good at it.

  Long ago, she realized it was impossible to take a step in this town without going where someone else had been before, whether you were moving into a new office or a lover's pants.So she went after what other people had without remorse, it was how business was done. And it was why her new job, as president of the Big Network, was so important to her. It was the one thing in her life that had never belonged to anyone but her.

  She was the first person to run the Big Network, no one had warmed the seat before she put her perfect ass in it. She wasn't stuck with a schedule of rotten shows, wrong-headed series commitments, or a staff of idiots that would have to be broomed out.

  But more important than all of that, she was the first woman to run a major network. That would always be hers, and hers alone.

  Kim Woodrell lived in a strip of "custom homes" tucked snugly between the Pacific Coast Highway and the beach. The private street was a design gallery for architecture students. There was a hacienda, a villa, an English Tudor and then her place, which looked like an origami flamingo dropped onto the sand by a benevolent Japanese giant.

  She parked the car in her garage, got out, and was surprised to see the alarm panel was deactivated. It had either been disconnected, or she forgot to set it before she left. Either way, there was nothing she could do about it now.

  Not that she cared. She bought the place furnished, so the decor reflected the previous inhabitant's fascination with chrome. If someone wanted to steal it all, they were welcome to it.

  The first thing she noticed when she stepped into the cavernous living room wasn't something missing, but something new. Empty Evian bottles were scattered everywhere, on the chrome-and-glass coffee table, on the chrome-and-leather chair, on the winding, chrome-and-metal staircase leading upstairs.

  At the same instant, she recoiled from the smell, a heavy, acrid stench that was at once repulsive and familiar.

  Piss.

  She took a few more steps into the room and saw the walls were streaked with urine, as if someone had sprayed them down with a hose. There wasn't a single wall that hadn't been pissed on.

  Kim shivered, feeling the intruder's presence as strongly as the odor, even though he was probably long gone.

  Some guy spent an entire day here, just pissing on everything, filling up on Evian whenever his bladder ran dry. And she had a pretty good idea who it was.

  He was marking his territory, the way a dog would.

  The message was clear: You're mine.

  * * * * * *

  Charlie woke up early the next morning, stiff and sore, and took a jog on the beach to loosen the jet lag from his joints, returning to Nick's suite 45 minutes later, drenched with sweat, his heart pounding like small beast trying to break out of his chest.

  He was spending way too much time sitting in airplanes having cocktails and not enough time sweating them off. He mopped off the sweat with a thick, Grand Royal Kona towel, dug his exercise gloves out of his suitcase and ambled into the suite's small gym.

  The gym was basically a converted bedroom with a weight set, treadmill, and a fully stocked wet bar, just in case a guest was worried to much time might pass between losing the pounds and putting them back on. Nothing like a handful of Cashews and a frothy mug of imported beer after rigorous exercise.

  Charlie picked up a couple 60 pound barbells, sat down on the edge of a padded bench, and did some curls while admiring the spectacular ocean view. He took a moment to rest between his first and second set of 20 reps, and that's when he heard the scuffling upstairs.

  Several sets of feet stumbled around, bumping into things. Then he heard breaking glass, a heavy thud, and a scream of agony, followed by another thud.

  That's when he remembered who was staying upstairs. Javier Grillo, a Pinnacle Studios employee, which made his safety Charlie's responsibility.

  Charlie dropped the barbells and rushed out of the suite, taking the stairwell up two flights to the next floor. He opened the door slowly, stepping into a hallway identical to the one leading to Nick's suite, only with a different maritime painting on the wall.

  One of the double doors to Grillo's suite was ajar, and Charlie could hear someone groaning inside. Charlie crept cautiously towards the suite, pushed the door open and saw a man in Bermuda shorts and a t-shirt slumped over a laptop on the dining room table. It had to be Javier Grillo.

  As Charlie got closer, he saw that Grillo's hands were smashed to bloody pulp, probably with the hammer that was now lying at the screenwriter's feet. And it must have just happened, because the blood was only now beginning to spread across that tabletop. Grillo was hurting, but at least he was alive.

  A flicker of movement on the computer screen caught Charlie's eye. A reflection.

  He shot up his hands just as the attacker wrapped the garrote around his neck and pulled it taut. The two men staggered backwards, the wire cutting into the rubber palms of Charlie's gym gloves and pinning his arms against his chest.

  Charlie hurled himself backwards, slamming his attacker against the wall again and again and again, until he heard a moist smack and felt the man sag behind him.

  He ducked under the wire and let the attacker slide to the floor, painting a swath of blood on the wall with his head.

  The experts were right, Charlie thought, examining his sliced gloves while he caught his breath. Lifting weights can prolong your life.

  He looked down at his attacker. The guy was dressed like a bell man, his white uniform spattered with blood, probably from smashing Grillo's hands. Charlie crouched beside him and patted him down for weapons. He felt a bulge under his jacket and reached inside to find a folded set of papers. He stood up and sorted through them.

  It was a Company contract made out for Nick Alamogordo. Charlie glanced at Grillo, then back at the contract. The connection was obvious.

  "Fuck, fuck, fuck," the attacker grumbled drowsily, rivulets of blood running down his cheeks like red tears. "I didn't work my way up from the mailroom to die like this."

  "You'll live," Charlie shoved the papers into the waistband of his shorts, went to the phone and dialed the hotel operator to get the police and paramedics up there. "And if you're a half-decent agent, you'll negotiate your prison sentence down by testifying against Clive Odett and The Company."

  "That will never happen," the assassin said. "Clive Odett would get to me first and eat me alive."

  "He's just an agent."

  The man laughed. "You have no idea who you're dealing with." And with that, he gritted his teeth.

  Suddenly the assassin started jerking wildly, his whole body undulating, a strange gurgling sound coming from his throat. Before Charlie could do anything except drop the telephone receiver, it was over. The man was dead, eyes and mouth wide open.

  Charlie stared at the man in shock. He couldn'
t figure out what had just happened. One minute the man was lucid, talking, and the next, it was like...it was like something he saw in a bad war movie, only it couldn't possibly be...

  Could it?

  He peered into the man's mouth and saw the broken tooth that had once contained the cyanide capsule.

  Chapter Eight

  Charlie marched into Nick Alamogordo's suite and found him out on the lanai, holding a tropical drink and sucking a pineapple wedge.

  "Where have you been?" Nick asked.

  "Getting some exercise," Charlie said, removing his sliced weight-lifting gloves.

  Nick picked some pineapple strands from between his teeth and flicked them over the rail. "Listen, I've been giving this whole situation some thought."

  "What situation?"

  "This thing with me and The Company," Nick said. "It's been blown way out of proportion, and I got to take the blame for that. I'm a volatile personality, you know? The point is, I shouldn't have left the Company. They're like family to me, and you don't walk away from your family."

  "I see," Charlie said. "And this revelation just came to you during the night?"

  "Yeah, I get some of my best ideas in my sleep or sitting on the can," Nick said. "What's it to you?"

  Then something occurred to the screenwriter. He got it now. "Hey, you want to stay in Hawaii a couple more days, that's fine with me." Nick winked.

  "A Company agent smashed Javier Grillo's fingers with a hammer," Charlie pulled the contract from under his shirt and tossed it to Nick. "I found this on the agent."

  Nick looked the contract over and dropped it on the chaise lounge. "So?"

  "The Company did it for you."

  "The agent tell you that?"

  "The agent is dead."

  Nick shrugged and took a sip of his drink. "Have a nice flight back to L.A."

  "You told Clive Odett if he got Javier Grillo off the movie, you'd go back to the agency."

  "Says who? You?" Nick laughed. "You're a studio security officer. What are you gonna do, revoke my drive on pass?"