Created By

by Richard Matheson

  CAA and ICM agents roved; Armani hammerheads. Stars scarfed in the private room, in the commissary, shielded from earth contact. Development executives campaigned and pleaded. Over lunch. On 560 SEC cellulars. Anywhere talent would listen and commit. Anywhere red lights could be bribed or stroked green.

  Alan crossed the lot in a complimentary golf cart, on the way to his office; a junior Bob Hope. He stopped at Frank’s office and found him, in his chair, spinning slow, nasty circles, rolling a bomber. He’d been given Lucy’s old office, the one she ruled before she’d moved to Desilu in 1807. She’d inherited it from Howard Hughes after he dropped bra research in favor of alphabetizing his urine. Further along, it got passed to Pica Lancelot Stephen J. Cannell. It was one of Hollywood’s priceless hand-me-downs.

  The office was a three-room suite, complete with bar, blazing fireplace, and furniture that looked like it came from the mansion of one of Balzac’s mistresses; even the pillows seemed carved. Frank kept his Harley knuckle-head parked inside, leaned against the calfskin sofa. It leaked chain oil on the Berber but that was okay with the studio. Frank’s show was number one and his pilot just pulled a thirty share. He was royalty.

  Def Leppard’s “Adrenalize” was coming through the Bang and Olufsen system with garden shears. Frank was practically yelling, complaining.

  “… this star of mine is worse than the soundtrack to Torch Song Trilogy injected directly into your colon.”

  “He’s still driving you crazy?”

  Frank gathered his thoughts; beyond gone. Turned down the ear-throb.

  “I’m bleeding seventy grand a week for this guy, right? Man spent two months working in a soap before the network jams him down my pilot. Show makes him a star, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Does he extend appreciation?” Frank pivoted his head in a slow no. “What he does is—now get this, it’s seminal—the Minnesota state fair decides to fly him in for a special promotional gig. God only knows, okay? He’s gonna fuck a hen in front of forty thousand people far as I know, ’cause he’s the star of a weekly show and that’s valuable.” He held up the joint. “You want some of this?”

  Alan passed, scanning the litter of compact discs everywhere; loitering like little flying saucers. He wasn’t in the mood to get high. He’d been writing all morning and took a cart ride to clear the numbing procession of eight-by-ten glossy, Prell-heads that had been sent in envelopes for the part of the Mercenary, though Andy Singer hadn’t ordered the pilot. But rumors did the carcinoma seep and agents wanted the jump.

  Only one guy had been vaguely interesting. But the pink galaxy of freckles on his face was so visually alarming you could barely look at him without feeling like Margaret Mead seeing the Canary chain from a plane for the first time.

  Frank got up to fuck with the fireplace he kept going for atmosphere though it was summer. Alan glanced at him and knew “Let’s Get Serious” was driving Frank nuts, as usual. Frank took a swig on the burning sausage of dope, flung booted legs over the couch and landed in eleven grand of tufted red cow. Covered his eyes with a hairy forearm, thinking colitis thoughts. Sometimes Alan saw his future in Frank and it unnerved him.

  Alan went to the beveled window and watched two fat executive producers who bulged out of their Bally’s, quietly arguing with a troubled director who was shooting an episode of their series, on the lot. The parklike courtyard outside Frank’s office had been dressed to resemble a mental institution yard and extras with narcotized faces did the prefrontal lobe crisscross; dim guppies.

  But to achieve the gritty appearance of a genuine head-farm, all the set decorator had done was place a sign which read EARLEVILLE SANITARIUM AND MENTAL FACILITY in a prominent spot. Alan realized everything else had been left unchanged and was about to comment when Frank screamed out “Fuck!”

  He asked Alan if he wanted to hear the rest of the story. Alan was ready to listen to anything to take his mind off casting.

  Frank paced, cracking knuckles.

  “Okay … so this slide-of-smegma has his agent call me up and tell me we have a ‘star explosion’ on our hands. A supernova is born, right? Our goat-fucker is ‘exploding’ because he sang ‘Born in the U.S.A.’ in front of forty thousand farmers and assorted 4-H wildlife and this agent thinks he’s repping goddamn Elvis’s corpse risen from the grave.”

  Frank looked at Alan and cracked up, zigzagged into madness. The orange spot glowed bright between Frank’s smirking lips and the smoke vacuumed in.

  “So, what’re you gonna do?” asked Alan.

  Frank got buzzed on his com line. “Yeah?”

  “It’s Wayne,” said the secretary, flat-voiced.

  “I’m in Melbourne getting a head transplant,” Frank barked.

  Alan smiled.

  “Tellin’ ya’ Al, these guys are 150-watt assholes. They should shoot guys in the streets if they catch ’em carrying a SAG card. Turns people into fuckin’ vampires.”

  Alan nodded, knowing this would pass. And knowing it would be back, stronger. “Wanna catch a screening next week? New Rohmer film? Singleton has a new one out next Tuesday, too.”

  “Call me.”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, by the way … I heard about the pilot you pitched from my agent. What the fuck is it? Mercenaries on Metamucil, something like that?”

  “One guy. The Mercenary. Gonna take it to the edge if I get a go-ahead.”

  “That’s what I hear. Good luck, man. Andy Singer is a fuckin’ pain to sell a show to. You get a nibble, you did good … you’re in the pink tunnel.”

  Alan smiled. Frank knew him from way back when they were staff drones for “Tits ’n Trans-Am” shows at Universal; he knew how many nerve endings got shoved into pencil sharpeners and lost forever working the prime-time mines, listening to your brain crave oxygen. He knew what selling a pilot meant if it took off. Not just success and recognition.

  It meant a way out, with fifty million waiting on the other side of the guarded wall, sitting in a gold convertible.

  “Alan …”

  Alan turned, heading out the door. Frank pointed a chubby finger. “Keep one hand on the rip cord, huh? It’s gonna get heavy if it pulls numbers. Trust me.”

  Alan said nothing, starting to get nervous. He was about to leave Paramount and start a new contract at Universal, and they’d agreed to pick up negative costs in exchange for a piece of syndication, if it made it to sixty-six episodes. But he was still nervous.

  If Andy green-lighted “The Mercenary,” Alan would have to move fast. He had no star, only a partial pilot story. It could all evaporate if he didn’t pull the pieces together. He began to realize he was afraid of failing.

  And more afraid of being a hit.

  casting

  The guy had a tic. I’m tellin’ you. His fuckin’ cheekbones were doing the Jane Fonda tape through the whole reading.”

  Marty made a face. Producers all had that “antacid commercial” look about them; pained and squirmy.

  “Alan, he’s the best so far. That guy who was the semiregular on ‘Wiseguy’ was like a fuckin’ nightmare. I think he had a sock in his pants.” Marty chiseled a fingernail over shiny psoriasis; nerve mica.

  Alan tilted the coffee into his mouth and washed it over his teeth; a miniature hydroelectric dam gushing brown water. Then, he swallowed it down.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t have a tic. Maybe he was winking at me. Maybe he wanted a new friend. We got more people coming in?”

  Marty nodded, stood. Went over to the shutters and played with them, opening and closing the slanting lids as he rubbed the back of his neck. He wore a flannel shirt and hiking boots, and his front teeth were so prominent, he looked like a Bugs Bunny lumberjack. Being the nuts-and-bolts guy, making sure all the technical crap stayed on track, making sure the set ran efficiently was his personal leukemia; he wasn’t dead yet, but it was only a matter of time.

  “The network called me again. They’re having this blo
od-pressure problem.”

  “I know,” said Alan.

  “Do you? We’re facing some real prep-time problems here. They want this thing in two months.” Marty turned, pointing to the empty, video cassette shelf above the studio-type monitor. “We got zip. They don’t like zip.”

  “Hey, whattya want me to do, pour Doug Henning outta my dick? It’s gotta be right. I wanna get the pilot story and everything right. I mean what’s the point? If they’re that desperate … I mean, Christ.”

  Alan looked depressed and Marty gave him a compassionate nod; a soothing, rabbi backpacker. Marty smiled. “Hey, how about Art Garfunkel as the Mercenary? He’d be great.” He looked at Alan, landed his glance on amused eyes. They were both exhausted.

  “This is getting extremely ridiculous. A whole town full of guys who’d kill to be this guy and so far we’ve read a bunch of golf clubs.” Alan rubbed tired eyes.

  “You didn’t like that guy yesterday? ‘Tech’?”

  “That was really his name?”

  “Comes very highly recommended by MTM. He was second in line to play Arnold Becker on ‘L.A. Law.’ Done a lot of great stuff.”

  Alan paced. “Love the name.”

  “Not his idea. It was his agent. Told me he thought it would set him apart.”

  “Yeah. But not get him one.” Alan popped a Trident, leaned against the wall.

  Marty glanced at his watch, scowled. “Gotta get to Citrus. My ex is bringing her attorney and I’m bringing mine. She wants an extra sixpack of my blood every month.”

  “Who’s her guy?”

  “Marvin Roth …”

  “Roth? Guy’s a fuckin’ weasel. Wear steel mesh.” “My guy’s good.”

  “Roth’s better. He’s the attorney represented that eleven-year-old who said Jim Croce’s remains raped her.” No reaction. “Marty? I’m kidding …” Marty didn’t react and Alan hummed “Operator” to annoy him.

  Marty pressed on. “… I gotta split. Do something about this, will ya? I don’t want to go back to producing game shows.”

  “Game shows are great. Be a guy.”

  Marty was at the door, grabbing the knob.

  “Remember … two months. You don’t make a decision, they’ll make it for us.”

  He slammed the door and Alan sighed, staring at the glossy of Tech and grabbing his Bic disposable. He lit the corner of Tech’s chin and the flames crept to lips and nose. Alan tabbed a Diet Coke open and watched Tech’s face burning beyond recognition as he emptied the can.

  “Thanks for coming in,” he said, feeling the Ganges rising in his brain. He closed red eyes. Slumped.

  Listened to the air conditioner humming Alaska sounds. Tried to imagine himself in a cool lake, floating. Spinning; a wet second hand. Tried to feel the chill water holding him in a clear hand. Tried to stay there forever.

  He heard his door open and close.

  When he opened his eyes, a man was seated before his desk staring at him. His skin was rough, like he’d worked oil rigs or construction. His eyes were subzero; executioner remote. Hair black. Longish. Alan could imagine him stabbing children and listening for the tiny screams like it was Beethoven. He was no more than forty but the years clearly came hard, with pain. He stared at Alan.

  “Who are you?” asked Alan, unnerved by the way the man swallowed him whole with a direct look.

  “Somebody told me about an opening …”

  “Opening?”

  “A part.” His voice was low. Dominant. “Name’s Corea. Jake.”

  “How did you get in here?” Alan didn’t like this at all.

  “Snuck onto the lot. Fucked with some old guard’s head. Called your secretary, got her out of the office with some bullshit.”

  Alan was about to throw him out. But something in the man’s face stopped him. He looked as if he’d just murdered a family of eight, then fixed himself a sandwich, ignoring the mutilated bodies. He looked unstable. Dangerous. Alan couldn’t take his eyes off him.

  “Do you have an agent? Are you an actor?”

  The man made a sour face. “Fuck agents. I’m what’s gonna sell tickets.”

  They locked eyes. There was something frightening about him. Something not right.

  “What kind of experience have you had?”

  He grinned. “Whattya need?”

  Alan laughed a little. Corea froze an uncomprehending stare. It was like, “What the fuck is so funny, asshole?” Afternoon shadows were shifting through the shutters and Alan could see, all at once, the man’s terrible skin. Pocked. Uneven. He wondered if it were a childhood disease? Acid thrown by a lover. He couldn’t be sure. But it added to the septic menace.

  “So you want ratings—or whatever the fuck it is you guys want?”

  Alan nodded. That’s what he wanted.

  “Then that’s what you’re looking at. Ratings.” Again, that arrogant, fuck-you hardness. That contemptuous, pained anger at an Evian pussy.

  Alan just watched him.

  “So you are an actor? You’ve worked in things?”

  “Wherever I was, I knew my lines.”

  Alan nodded. Ooookay.…

  “You’re a pretty unfriendly guy. Anybody ever tell you that?”

  “Everybody,” said Corea. “And you’re a charming phony. Anybody ever tell you that?” A torturer’s smile.

  “You don’t believe in flattering a potential employer.”

  “Planning on employing me?”

  “Who knows,” answered Alan, wondering if this guy could deliver anything a coach could sculpt into decent work.

  “Then you’re a stupider fuck than I already thought.” He got up. “I’ll be watching for the cancellation.”

  Alan stared after him, not believing this. His secretary, Lauren, buzzed him as Corea slammed the door. “Geez, who was that? You tell him he couldn’t act or something? He stormed out of here ready to kill somebody.”

  “How’d you know he was an actor?”

  “I just assumed. The guy has presence.”

  Alan told her he wanted to talk. She came in, looked at the burned photograph of Tech. Made a face, ran a palm edge on the desktop to sweep blackened fragments.

  “What do you think?”

  “That guy? Sexy. Reminds me of like Oliver Reed in a really bad mood.”

  “Oliver Reed is always in a bad mood.”

  “He’s incredible. Can he act?”

  “Don’t know. Didn’t read him.”

  “What were you doing in here?”

  Alan didn’t answer. Still shaken by the odd behavior. Lauren came behind, massaged his shoulders. “You like him, don’t you?”

  Alan said he didn’t.

  “You like him.”

  “No. He’s not what I want.”

  She nodded; unconvinced.

  Alan thought more and called to her as she walked to the door. “Call the gate. See if you can catch him before he splits. Try and get a phone number on the guy.”

  She nodded, closed the door. Alan didn’t feel good. His head ached. And Corea gave him the creeps.

  A “charming phony.”

  Fuck him.

  back story

  To get to Palm Springs from L.A., you stroked your armpits with surfboard wax, poured your car its favorite beverage, and tried to go into a trance for a couple hours. The drive during July was a bad, sticky drag that made people want to punch little kids in the mouth just because they asked for an ice cream.

  The freeway went through weird, spectral places like Cucamonga or Azusa and smog wiped grimy hands over everything, making the trip like a ride through a muffler. For geeks into bug organs on glass, it was major.

  Every weekend, people in the business flocked to the “Springs”; solar lemmings. It was hot and dry and easy to score; coke, cock, cunt. Control. In forty-eight hours, players big and small could make the round trip. Brown in the sun. Have drinks. Set up deals. Make connections. Play tennis.

  Lie.

  Business didn’t sto
p in Hollywood on weekends. It just moved and used a net. The Tijuana wristwatch hustle kept rolling 125 miles south under a welding sun. But really it was another workday. The sun beat down on the crazies, an interrogation lamp, and deals sweated along with everything else.

  Alan downshifted his 928S as a bunch of Big Mac hyenas in a rowdy Trans Am cut him off, laughing mindlessly, dragging an unleaded tail. Two sixteen-year-old girls in back smiled through ghoul makeup and lifted blouses. Their dumpling breasts shook, mimicking the road; D-cup toys. Then, the car vanished.

  Alan pushed his CD player on and cranked the volume on Concrete Blonde’s “BLOODLETTING” to ten. Another hour to go. He hoped his father was in a good mood.

  Or at least not a bad one.

  He roared in front of La Petite Gallerie about noon. The Springs was already on broil and the sun speared him the second he snuffed the engine and got out. He stretched a cello spine, reached back in, tossed his CD and cassette box behind the seat, in shade. Big mistake leaving tapes in an obvious spot. He’d done it once and come back to find a Dolby sundae.

  No different from what this place did to its population, he thought, starting to sweat. Took fine people with good brains, treated them like butter in a frying pan. “Sssssszzzzzzzzzz … honey, I don’t feel so good.” Too long on the fairway, your brain is running down your tie.

  Alan grabbed the gift he’d brought for his dad’s birthday and headed in the fancy front door. Much cooler inside; a meat locker. He straightened his hair, strolled through, taking note of inventory that had come in since his visit a month back.

  Magrittes. Two of them. This Is Not a Pipe. One of Alan’s favorites. Magritte would’ve been a trip to have a Heineken with. The bottle would drink him.

  At the curving, teak counter, Alan’s father, Burt, was chatting with a woman in her seventies who looked very rich. She dressed Town and Country summer chic, with emerald-and-diamond bracelets cuffing wrinkled wrists, hair pulled Grace Kelly tight. Burt always had Broadway show music playing in the gallery; never got all those years he’d directed in New York off the turntable.