by Lee Goldberg
* * * * * *
"That went well," Charlie said as he steered the golf cart away from the hotel and along the Pinnacle City promenade.
"It would have, if you hadn't walked off the stage," she replied, glancing at all the colorful neon storefronts.
"They didn't want to see me," Charlie said. "To them, he's Captain Pierce. I'm just a jerk in a stupid outfit."
"Maybe if you stayed up there, they would have had the chance to get to know you," she said. "You were up and off so fast, they probably don't even remember what you look like."
"You seem to be forgetting something," Charlie said, "I'm not staying with the show."
She gave him a coy smile. "Maybe you'll change your mind."
The promenade spilled out onto a large plaza between the Pinnacle City 18-A-Plex and a parking structure where, on the second floor, Thrack sat in his idling Hummer, watching the golf cart crawl across the cement like a bug waiting to get stomped.
The wait was over. Thrack floored it.
Charlie steered the cart off the plaza onto the access road that led to the studio. "This is just an undercover assignment."
"But what if you like it?"
"I don't," he said, "and I won't."
A familiar rumble drew Charlie's attention. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a banged-up Hummer charging across the plaza towards them.
"Hold on," Charlie slammed his foot on gas pedal, but the cart barely accelerated. "Can't this thing go any faster?"
"The studio carts go twelve miles an hour, tops," she said. "What's the hurry?"
The V-8 turbo-diesel growl of the Hummer answered her question. She jerked around in her seat and saw 6000 pounds of metal closing in on them so fast she could make out the tread pattern on its four monster tires.
"Charlie," she said, her eyes wide with fear, "we can't out-run it."
And there was no way to evade the Hummer on the wide open access road. In just a few seconds, they would be run over. Which left only one option.
Charlie shoved Alison down. "Get flat on the floor, now."
She scrunched down under the dashboard, her face against the metal floor, and for the first time since she was a child, she prayed.
Thrack hunched over the wheel, feeling the roar of the engine as he bore down on the golf cart. He saw himself as the lion chasing after the stupid deer in those great wild animal specials on TV. The deer could weave and dodge all it wanted, in the end it was dead meat.
But then Charlie Willis did something the deer never did. He turned around and came at the lion, running right for its slavering jaws.
Charlie headed straight at the oncoming Hummer, carefully steering towards the center grill, away from the monster wheels. He was counting on the Hummer being seven feet wide and about two feet high. If he was wrong, he'd never live to find out.
At the last possible second, he let go of the wheel, grabbed the steering column for support, and leaned his body straight out the side of the cart.
The two vehicles collided, the Hummer shearing off the windshield, the rooftop, the steering wheel and the seat-backs of the cart as it mowed over them. Alison screamed, and so did Charlie, his hair grazed by the monster tires as the cart passed underneath the Hummer.
Thrack wailed with delight as the cart ripped apart in front of him, but couldn't help wondering why he was missing out on all the gore. That was half the fun of running someone over.
The instant the ravaged cart cleared the rear of the Hummer, Charlie sat up and discovered he had no wheel to steer the speeding cart with. It didn't matter, he couldn't afford to stop now anyway.
The golf cart veered out of control towards the Pinnacle 18-A-Plex while behind them, the Hummer continued to barrel down the access road, leaving a wake of twisted fiberglass and shredded vinyl.
Thrack was about to turn off the access road and charge down the incline towards the freeway, when he glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the decapitated cart weaving across the plaza, and Charlie Willis in the drivers seat. Thrack wrenched the wheel, spinning the Hummer around and steering it back toward the plaza.
Charlie took his foot off the gas pedal, stopping the cart in front of the theater. Alison sat up slowly, still dazed, his jacket torn off her back by the undercarriage of the Hummer.
"Stay here," Charlie said. "It's me he wants."
Before Alison could argue, Charlie ran across the open plaza towards the parking structure lobby.
Alison watched in horror as the Hummer roared up the access road and headed for Charlie. He was an obvious target, easy to stop among the tourists in his bright, red Confederation uniform.
Terrified tourists scrambled out of the Hummer's path as it tore across the plaza, reaching the structure just as Charlie dashed into the elevator, the doors closing behind him.
Thrack slammed on the brakes, skidded to a stop, and glanced up to see the elevator rising in a glass shaft, Charlie inside.
Bastard! Thrack shifted into reverse, tires screeching, then jammed the Hummer into drive, blowing through the parking structure entrance towards the upper floors.
Charlie leaned against the glass, panting for breath, his chest aching, watching as the Hummer sped up the structure after him. He had no idea what to do next.
Thrack raced up the structure, floor by floor, people diving out of his way. At each new level, Thrack glanced out the passenger window to make sure Charlie was still in the ascending elevator. He was.
A Mercedes 500S backed out in front of Thrack, and he plowed into it without stopping, tearing off $7000 worth of German trunk space.
The elevator stopped at the sixth floor, an empty rooftop parking lot. Charlie stepped out and could hear the Hummer smashing through cars below. He figured he had a minute at best.
Charlie stepped around the elevator and looked over the edge of the low, cement wall. The plaza was six floors down. He could forget about jumping.
He glanced across the lot and saw the stairwell. That was a possibility. No way the Hummer could get him in there. He was about to make a run for it when the Hummer practically flew up from the floor below.
Charlie glanced back at the elevator. The doors were closed. It was gone.
He had no where to go. So there was only one thing he could do.
Charlie turned back and faced the Hummer.
And gave the driver the finger.
Enraged, Track stomped on the gas pedal. "You're mine, asshole!"
Charlie stood his ground, staring at the Hummer as it charged towards him. When the Hummer was close enough that he could see Thrack, and the delirious fury in his eyes, Charlie dived to one side and hit the cement rolling.
Thrack slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel. But it was too late. There wasn't enough pavement left. The Hummer spun sideways and burst through the cement wall into thin air. The last moment of Thrack's life was spent searching in vain for a switch to activate a parachute.
Alison was standing in front of the theater, her cell phone pressed against her ear, on hold with the 911 operator, when the Hummer plunged off the sixth floor of the parking structure, flipped over, and slammed upside down into the plaza.
Because Los Angeles has a strict anti-smoking ordinance, the first thing visiting Walla Walla native Jan Curran did when she emerged from Celebrity Galaxy was light a cigarette, the same cigarette that dropped from her lips when she, mouth wide in shock, saw the Hummer fly off the parking structure.
The Marlboro hit the pavement and rolled a few inches, where it met a tiny, creeping finger of gasoline and ignited it, the flame sizzling across the cement like a burning fuse.
Charlie Willis struggled to his feet and leaned over the edge of the parking structure, just as the Hummer exploded, spitting out a fireball that sent him staggering back, singed by the flames six floors up.
* * * * * *
"You really think I have star quality?" Bev paced nervously in front of Clive Odett, stealing glances at herself in the mirror.
"I haven't seen such natural beauty since I discovered Winona Ryder working in a Pacoima 7-11," said Clive Odett, trying to exude sincerity and passion, which wasn't easy when every turn of his head flushed the toilet he was taped to. Why couldn't she just sit still?
He'd been left alone with Bev for the last few hours, which was fine with him. He immediately pegged her as the captor most vulnerable to his charms. All he had to do was look at her, it was as obvious as the elephant nose on her homely face. Make her believe she could be beautiful, if only she'd let him transform her. And he couldn't transform her taped to a toilet, could he? So she'd let him go. Then he'd bash her skull in and run, once the circulation returned below his waist.
"You discovered Winona Ryder?" she asked.
"And Meryl Streep, too, though she lacks your powerful presence and smoldering sexuality."
Odett's stomach growled, ruining the moment. But that couldn't be helped, he hadn't eaten in at least a day.
"But you must know that already," he said. "Every time you walk down the street, don't you feel the stares? People can't help themselves. It's your undeniable magnetism."
Bev studied herself in the mirror. It was true, people did stare at her, everywhere she went.
"To think, if you hadn't kidnapped me, I might never have had this miraculous opportunity to meet you," Odett said.
She always knew she was destined for more than the DMV or US Postal Service could ever offer her. She was just waiting to be discovered. Who knew it would happen like this?
She gave herself a second look. Streep wasn't a bad actress, but could she be a Snork? Could Streep be as regal? No, she couldn't. But Bev did it every day, effortlessly. Maybe Odett was right. She was a natural born actress.
For a moment, she could almost see herself accepting her Oscar, her Snorkie nose wrapped in sequins. She'd thank the Academy, the Confederation of Aligned Planets, and...
Odett's stomach growled again, intruding on her thoughts, reminding her that they'd taken care of his liquid needs, but never even thought about feeding him. He'd been so nice to her, she decided to make him something special to show her thanks.
"You need something to eat," she said.
"Sushi would be nice," he replied. "We can get some on the way to the agency."
But she was already out the door, much to Odett's frustration. He shook his head, inadvertently flushing the toilet again.
Bev went to the kitchen and searched the cupboards for food, but all she could find were assorted flavors of space food sticks, some pasta, catsup, a six-pack of beer, and a half-eaten bag of cheese doodles.
To anyone less resourceful than Bev Huncke, this would be a disaster. She saw the makings of a gourmet meal. All she had to do was boil the noodles, warm up the catsup with some mushrooms from the backyard, sprinkle some crushed cheese doodles over everything, and she'd have delicious Spaghetti Primavera Parmesan for two.
She started boiling the water and dreaming about her movie career.
Chapter Twenty Three
There were two commissaries on the Pinnacle Studio lot. One was the Studio Grill, a huge cafeteria where secretaries who thought of themselves as "pre-produced screenwriters" came to trash their bosses over diet Chinese chicken salads; where slick-haired, junior development execs ate pre-packaged sushi and pretended the crab was real; and where key grips, gaffers, best boys and focus pullers faithfully ate brownish globs of Salisbury Steak without ever asking what was in it.
The Studio Grill was open to anyone who equated microwaves with home cooking. It shared the same building, and the same kitchen, with The Terrace Room, but the similarities ended there.
The Terrace Room was a private restaurant for studio vice presidents, big-name actors, A-list directors with over-all deals, and executive producers of current series. The maitre'd checked all lunch reservations with the business affairs department. Any director who's deal was not being renewed or actor who suffered a bad opening weekend at the box-office was politely, but firmly, invited to pick up a tray at the Studio Grill next door.
Legendary studio chief Leroy Waterland used to eat lunch each day at the Terrace Room, sitting in a booth on a raised platform against the back wall, catered to by a personal chef and waiter. Anyone who approached his table without being invited was thrown off the lot and never allowed to return. This, of course, turned out to be his undoing. He choked to death on a pimento because no one dared go to his table for fear he was just coughing.
That little pimento caused a revolutionary upheaval in the entertainment industry. Upon his death, the studio was sold to the Japanese, who later sold it to a world-class pornographer. But despite the tumultuous changes in ownership and the industry, The Terrace Room and the exclusivity that came with it, remained.
Which was why Eddie Planet was so glad to be there, his Reserved for Eddie Planet plaque planted on the edge of his table where everyone who came in could see it. But what really made it special was seeing Kenny Rogers come in, only to get stopped by the maitre'd, who made a quick call and then escorted the red-faced singer to the door. Lately, Kenny's chicken had a bigger audience than his TV movies.
Eddie thought about inviting Kenny to his table, to spare him the embarrassment of being thrown out, but decided not to mess with God's master plan. It was no coincidence that Kenny Rogers showed up on Eddie's first day back in The Terrace Room. Obviously, this was a blatant message for Eddie from the big producer himself: You're at the top and you're staying there.
It made Eddie think about having his plaque mounted on the table. Maybe even redirect one of the ceiling track lights so it aimed a subtle beam right at the plaque. He was figuring out the best way to approach the maitre'd about it when a comment broke into his thoughts.
"Look, it's Keanu Reeves," Brougham pointed across the dining room at David Geffen's table.
He swatted her hand down. "I've told you a dozen times, do not point and do not stare."
Eddie invited his secretary to lunch because there was no way he was going alone, and it never hurt to be seen with a gorgeous woman with huge breasts. Even so, he regretted it.
"This is not a bus tour of the star's homes," Eddie hissed. "In here, we are all equals, so we aren't impressed by anyone else. If you point or stare, that means you're impressed, which means you're not at their level, which means you don't belong in the Terrace Room."
"If you're as famous as everyone else, why do you have to have your name on the table?"
"Because I care about the environment. Do you have any idea how many old growth redwoods are sacrificed each day for those little, cardboard 'table reserved' placards?" Eddie stood up abruptly. "Time to go."
Eddie pulled her chair out so hard, she almost fell out. While strolling to the door, he winked at Jennifer Aniston, nodded at David Kelley, and gave a knowing smile to Mike Nichols.
As soon as they were outside, the valet brought Eddie's cart around. He tipped the guy a buck and they sped off between the soundstages towards his bungalow.
"There's Guy Goddard," Brougham said.
"Where?" Eddie asked, slowing down.
"Over there," she said, looking straight ahead.
Eddie looked all around, but couldn't see him. "Where is he? Where do you see him?"
"I thought you said not to point."
"In the Terrace Room," Eddie snapped. "Out here it's open season, honey. You can point, stare, and foam at the mouth. Now where is he?"
She pointed to Eddie's left, where Guy Goddard, in his faded Confederation uniform, marched into the Beyond the Beyond soundstage.
What the hell was he doing here?
Eddie glanced at his watch. The crew broke for lunch and wouldn't be back for another half-an-hour. He had to get Guy off the lot, as quietly and as quickly as possible.
"Take the cart and go back to the office," Eddie said. "I've got some memos on my desk you can shrink wrap."
She scooted off in the cart and Eddie went inside the dark soundstage. He slipped be
tween two flats and found himself standing at the rear of the Endeavor bridge. Someone was sitting in the command chair, his back to Eddie.
"Guy?" Eddie asked.
Captain Pierce flicked a switch on the armrest console. "Security, this is the Captain. Intruder alert. There are aliens on board."
Captain Pierce turned around slowly in the command chair to face Eddie, who clapped enthusiastically.
"Wow, it's like time just stood still. Seeing you in that chair, hearing the voice... what can I say? It gave me shivers."
"You lied to me," the Captain said. "You are one of them."
"Hey, I'm your biggest fan, you know that," Eddie smiled as warmly as he could, "and I've used every bit of my power and influence you back on the show in a major role."
"Then you've rid the ship of evil doubles and restored my command."
"Even better," Eddie said. "You get to be the voice of the computer."
Captain Pierce shot him.
The taser hit Eddie in the chest, and blasted him against the wall, the voltage shaking him so much Captain Pierce could hear the coins rattling out of his pockets.
But they weren't coins. They were car keys.
* * * * * *
It wasn't hard finding Eddie Planet's car. The Lexus was parked right outside the soundstage, under a huge sign that read: "This parking space reserved for Eddie Planet."
Captain Pierce stuffed Eddie in the trunk and drove off the lot, pausing at the intersection outside the main gate as a fire engine, ambulance, and several police cars sped past, sirens wailing.
* * * * * *
Melvah arrived at the starship Endeavor at its crash site in Van Nuys, expecting to find Captain Pierce on the bridge, where she would have to tell him that, once again, they'd failed to kill Charlie Willis.
But when she arrived, the starship was unsettlingly empty and quiet, like the episode in which everyone but the Captain was transformed into shadows. He walked the corridors of the Endeavor alone, a single voice in the universe, before he realized there were shadows everywhere, even where the light wasn't positioned to cast them. Eventually, the Captain discovered a God-like alien entity was responsible for turning his crew into shadows, and that it was all part an experiment to see how long a man could survive utterly alone.