“I’m going to sue you for her medical expenses you bastard!” She stared into Mary Hart’s camera, half-insane, spit running down her chin. “… and I’m starting a letter-writing campaign to the sponsors who permit your hateful garbage to be aired!”
More network cameras were sniffing around; scoop ghouls. In seconds, everyone knew Alan was the guy who’d created “The Mercenary” and that the screaming lady’s daughter had been hurt by something identical to what he’d written. They waited to see what would happen next. Alan felt like he was in a nightmare; scores of eyes watching, in beer hazes, wondering if it were true.
“You and your show are evil!” she screamed, pig eyes unblinking. “My church is going to stop you!”
“What’s your name, ma’am?” asked a reporter from People.
But she just kept yelling for everyone to join her in her letter-writing campaign and for them all to help ban the show. She said she was a member of a fundamentalist church in Arizona and kept shrieking about Alan being godless. She managed to pull free of the guys holding her and ranted, out of control.
She held up a color photograph of a little girl with a burned face. Everyone wanted to see her daughter’s flesh, the thick gauze that collected weeping infection.
“She’s only six years old!” the woman screamed.
Alan tried to escape the glaring faces which leered, out of focus, all around him. They were disturbed by the graphic photo and some began to push him a little, drunk and stupid. His vision was smeared and he fell over something, trying to push through the choking crowd.
He was on the ground, bleeding, chin and palms cut. A Boschian jury stared down, eyes filled with question. Rising hatred. Over engine roar, Alan could hear voices yelling for Security, others for the track doctor. Cameras zoomed in on everything with stoic predation.
She twisted furiously, pulling away from people who tried to calm her. Another reporter pressed and she finally admitted she was from Tucson and her name was Linda Crain. She’d read Alan was going to be at this race and driven all night. Driven all night to make him hurt the way her daughter was hurting.
One of Alan’s pit crew guys grabbed her again as she lunged for Alan and kicked him hard in the ribs. She pointed an accusing finger at him, pulled through the crowd.
“He hurts innocent children!” She was bright red. “Alan White hurts innocent children with his show!”
“Entertainment Tonight” broadcast the footage which included him holding his bruised ribs and her calling him a monster two days later.
station break
Pinks was one of those L.A. fester palaces built to resemble a huge hotdog. It slung in the sky, fiberglass buns and all, off Beverly; a phallocentric totem of breathtakingly bad taste.
Alan and Erica had just made out in her Honda Accord at a drive-in by LAX and sat on outdoor stools chomping chilidogs; urban wolves. The drive-in had featured a film-noir festival and 747s descending over actors faces.
“Colorization … end of fucking life. Those movies were perfect in black and white. Fucking Ted Turner. Why did he do that to all those films?” He pointed a chili-capped finger. “Who ever thought it was a good idea?”
“Just color, honey. Color won’t kill you.”
Chili sledded down his chin.
“Speaking of color,” she said, “I had an orgasm, that’s the key piece in this exchange, wouldn’t you agree?”
She looked up at the erectile hugeness of the diner. “Is it just me, or are we eating under the shade of an immense genital?”
“Define immense.”
“Over two stories.”
“You haven’t lived. Thought you said you’d been to Europe.” More chili in magma freefall.
A flirtatious whisper. “I like being with you.”
She watched him for a reaction. No reply. Then, wordlessly, he poured ketchup on his plate. Spelled out: DITTO in wet, red script.
She squealed in delight.
complication
The Oasis rose, fifteen stories, above the neurotic Nile of Wilshire Boulevard like a marble beanstalk. Its designer condos were filled with washed-up tales who’d saved their money, aside current darlings who wanted a class address and a roof-pool.
Some wanted anonymity. Some safety. They were all here; the distant and the dysfunctional, locked behind doormen and paranoia cameras. Performers. Real-estate smoothies. Actresses. Ex-wives of the powerful, who’d ruined their spouse’s savings accounts and moved on. Gigolos and mistresses, living in gilded invisibility; perfectly maintained thoroughbreds, grooming in penthouse stalls, awaiting whatever sexual gallop expected of them.
The women were beautiful and call-girl perfect, with the edgy sensitivity of bonsai; needing just enough sun, water, and costly soil, or they would wilt and sulk. The men were sleek and bronze, living in chaise stupors until their owner got home, demanding attention.
As the night guard sat at his post in the lobby, beneath multisecurity camera monitors, he didn’t feel the incursion. The almost immeasurable BTU warmth; a frequency. Like what silently roars along boulevards of nerves as we sleep. The exact moment a match head does a tiny Hiroshima when scratching along its sandy runway. The movement in the lash that precedes a blink.
It went by the guard like a momentary sunburn; an unseen sensation of fever beneath his guard suit. His brow began to sweat and his stomach sledded. He opened his thermos, poured clam chowder, and tossed back two Excedrins; round, white head-warriors.
He checked back into Clive Barker’s latest polonaise of suffering, looking up when the French couple from the fourteenth floor, who were in the jewelry business, exited the marbled elevator, taking their Elle faces out for a walk. They said hello; Truffaut dialogue.
Their matching white sweaters were amputated snowman torsos. Their shoes made costly clicks on the travertine lobby and they commented to one another that they’d felt an unsettling wave of heat enter the elevator when the doors opened. Like unscented exhaust.
But the lobby wasn’t hot and the paradox intrigued them. The wave seemed a separate region, a satellite climate, roaming. Its equatorial presence eluded description yet created sensation. A wave. Oui, un rouli, agreed the wife, adjusting a pearcut earring. As they left the Oasis, they both felt ill, their insides cornered by some firing squad they couldn’t name.
They had their 560 SEC brought up from the underground garage, tipped the valet. They began to pull out, from under an awning, to go to dinner. But as they opened the sunroof, they heard a faraway scream. They stopped and stared at one another, in confusion. It must be the people playing in the third-floor balcony pool, they said.
But it was too late.
A soft boulder had fallen fifteen stories and dropped onto the coupe, buckling the roof, turning it into a stepped-on can. A bloody face hung above the terrified couple, trapped in the crumpled sunroof opening, like some ghastly chandelier.
The man’s limp features retained a frozen, macabre curiosity as he stared with bloodied eyes. Every bone in the upper half of his body had been turned to pointless dowel by the fall and his ulna had pressed through the flesh of his forearm, from the force of the drop. It protruded like a dripping beam, meant to support skin, now resembling a butcher’s special.
Distant sirens began to choir and the night guard felt the heat and nausea pass over him again, as it sifted through the lobby. Then it left, moving beneath the glass door and away, past the gathered crowd. The people tried to help the well-dressed couple in the fancy car who were screaming and trapped, beautiful sweaters covered with Richard Frank’s warm blood.
love interest
Alan was struck by how numbing a real police station was. He’d spent years trying to write scripts which filled the places with colorful, irreverent exchanges; unexpected moments. But the actuality was a dreary vending machine. Paperwork and tired faces. Phones ringing. Clothes from Sears. No one looked like an actor; everyone needed to lose weight, gain some, or buy a wig.
A
s he sat in the waiting area in Homicide, a woman with full lips and dark hair came out.
“Mr. White?” Her nametag said DET. CAMILLE JARRE. She was pretty; sensual. Her eyes were hazel, voice calm.
Alan took her hand and when they looked at each other, there were feelings of wanting to know more. A feeling that something deep, on their ocean floors, was moving; coming to life.
They went into an office and a tall husky man leaned against the wall, on the phone, gestured them in. He had a beard to hide an extra chin and didn’t smile when he hung up.
“Detective Lichtman. Sit down, please.”
Lichtman hitched up his pants a bit. He wore Frye boots with big heels and they looked out of place under creased, saggy slacks. A chunky, gold bracelet noosed his wrist and the buttons of his shirt strained. He wanted to talk about Richard Frank’s tragic accident. But first he wanted to go back a few months and talk about what happened to Hector.
“Whatever you can remember, Mr. White. Probably no connection. Just want to be thorough.”
Alan ran through it and Lichtman jotted notes. As he talked, Lichtman would look up now and then and glare. He talked more and Lichtman pressed big thumbs hard against a pen, bending it.
Camille reacted with that soothing voice. “It must have been terrible, Alan.”
Not “Mr. White.” “Alan.” He preferred it. The personal approach felt good when you’d been called down to the big, badge hive. He looked over at Lichtman who wasn’t smiling.
“He was directing the pilot for your show?” The arsenic way he said “show” … there was something gnawing on the guy.
“I had to finish up the work after he … killed himself.”
“I see,” said Lichtman. “Quite an ironic opportunity for you. His death.”
The room fell silent. It was a fucked thing to say. Lichtman seemed to know it but wasn’t interested in revising the comment. Camille caught Alan’s eye and he saw she couldn’t believe Lichtman was being like this.
“Suicide is a tragedy, Neil. Not an opportunity,” she said.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” said Lichtman. “Anyway, let’s talk about Richard Frank. Anything you can tell us would be helpful to our investigation.”
Alan didn’t like Lichtman. And it was obvious Lichtman felt the same. It had happened the minute Alan walked into the room. Maybe it just drove him crazy Alan’s pants fit better than his. Or maybe he hated television. Maybe he had a faulty prostate and it made him leak nasty things. Or maybe he had a thing for Camille and saw something was happening between her and Alan.
Then again, maybe he was just a big, towering fuckhead who hated everybody who had only one chin. As Alan told them Richard Frank was a controversial guy a lot of people in television had it out for, he kept feeling that hatred from Detective Lichtman. The asphalt chunk the guy used for a personality just sat there taking notes, cold as ice.
“It’s interesting his blinding came a couple weeks after one of your episodes had the same thing.”
Alan just looked at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You tell me.”
“You’re the detective.”
“You’re the one who broadcast a vicious way to blind someone.”
“That’s absurd. He fell from a window.”
“His eyes were destroyed. Maybe he jumped out of the window from the pain. He certainly couldn’t see where he was going. He was blind. Or did I mention that?”
Alan’s lips tightened. No one had told him. It wasn’t in the papers. He was completely shocked.
“I’m not accusing you, Mr. White. I only said it was an interesting coincidence.” He jotted more notes. “You’re pretty sensitive for a guy who writes such tough stuff.” He sipped coffee. “He reviewed your show awhile back, didn’t he?” Then, a casual assault. “How’d he like it?”
Alan stared at him. “He didn’t.”
“Really …” Lichtman acted like he didn’t know, nodding a little.
Fuck you, thought Alan. Fuck you and your dingy, shitty little office and your boring, shitty little job and your fucking clown pants. Fuck your ugly neck and your saggy face. And mostly, fuck you for not telling me, the minute I walked in, what really happened to Richard Frank. For ambushing me like that to get a reaction.
But he just grinned at Lichtman like it didn’t bother him. Like he thought Lichtman was a trivial washer in a dull machine.
Lichtman smiled back. “Guess it’s gonna be kinda hard for Mr. Frank to do much reviewing in the future, don’t you think? He won’t be able to hurt any more shows.”
Alan didn’t answer, smiling at Camille, trying to act like he didn’t care what Lichtman’s problem was.
Even though he knew he had a point.
subtext three
Silence. A confession.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you. I didn’t feel ready … I’m sorry …”
Hand on eyes.
“… my mother committed suicide when I was fourteen. On the QE II, New Year’s Eve. I was at boarding school in Virginia. We talked that night. I remember the call verbatim.”
Aching “When she died it was worse than … after my other sister died. I’m ashamed I never mentioned her to you. She died when she was four. After being real sick. I used to wish my mother would die … because she was so depressed after my sister died. But I never said it to her. I was sullen … an angry little boy.”
Terrible amusement.
“Oh, listen to this one: at my mother’s funeral, one of my uncles said it’s too bad I wasn’t nicer to her. Like maybe I’d contributed to her using a pistol for a blow-dryer. Great, right?”
A finger raking hair off forehead, collecting it to one side.
“Just a minor little nuance in my development. Ate me up inside. Horrible thing to say. Especially after my little sister had already died. I’m sure he was just one of those people who are unaware. The whole family was upside down. You know …”
Silence.
“Months went on and the house felt like lifeless soil, and I had this strange sense that … I felt I killed my mother. Like my repressed anger had escaped and found its way into her mind, while she laid in bed like some grieving cadaver. Crawling in through her ear. Murdering her.”
A drink of water.
“I was ashamed my mother had killed herself. Everyone knew. I felt responsible. And I felt rejected. You know … Mommy killed herself … so, I wasn’t valuable enough for her to stick around, that whole maze. I mean, I’ve read about it. I know parents who commit suicide almost never do it because of the children. I was just a kid but I came to fear anger. Mine. Anybody’s. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about my little sister. I hate talking about it. It makes me feel sick …”
Staring off. Reaching for Kleenex.
“I miss my mother, so much …”
ten percent two
So, Joey-the-fucking-hitman makes an appointment through this producer we rep to meet some development guppy at Lorimar, right? Hold on …”
Alan could hear him eating, getting mad at his food, squawking at his secretary. Covering the mouthpiece a little.
“… is this angel hair? Who the fuck shaves these angels. This isn’t what I asked for …”
“Jordan … you there?”
“Alan … back. Anyway, the fucking hitman pitches his life story to this tampon who’s eating it up, sucking on the story. Studio guy says—”
Alan interrupted. “Jordan … going into a meeting. How about later?”
“Just take a sec. So, the studio guy says, ‘Hey, Guido, I love it. But I’ll have to get back to you.’ “Jordan oozed caustic glee.” The guy doesn’t get back to Guido and he shows up at his office this morning only to find a wheelchair with a fucking note attached, okay? Says … ‘Haven’t heard from you. I thought you liked me.’ ” Jordan cackled. “So, now it’s in development. Is that great?”
“Jordan … I have a meeting.”
“Right. I�
��ll make it fast. Two things. Number one: wanted you to hear it from me. Andy Singer is thinking about moving the time slot. Wants you Wednesday, ten.”
“Why? So he can move his dross into our time slot? We can guinea-pig for him? Friday, ten is where the show works. He’s an idiot. Fuck him.”
“I know. If you’ll think back, I was the one who first suggested Friday. Look, point is, it isn’t about Friday. It’s about Wednesday. He wants to hurt CBS. They own Wednesday.”
“My show is not his personal chemical weapon. I’m gonna call him.”
“No.”
There was something in Jordan’s voice. It wasn’t fear but sounded similar. “Let the agency handle it. We represent him. We’ll get him to back off.”
Alan rubbed eyes; another all-nighter in the editing room working on the eleventh episode. A blizzard of red flakes fell in his head.
“Don’t let him do this, Jordan. Or I’m going over to his office and personally ripping his two-inch dick off.”
“One inch. Don’t worry. Handled. Second thing: Tony Moore.”
Moore was the hottest director of big-budget action pictures in the business. He was reputedly the skinniest man in Hollywood, had wanton self-assurance, and there was talk about him being born an actual hermaphrodite. Rumor was surgery had sewn up his socket and given him a plug.
“Wants to meet you. Major fan of the show. Has a big summer picture setup at Geffen.”
“Interesting.”
“Hasn’t committed but he wants you to write it. His last three pictures have done over a hundred. This could get you into features exactly the right way. Very smart guy. Born with fucking ‘Up’s Syndrome’…”
“I hear he’s skinny.”
“What do you consider skinny?”
“Fifty pounds.”
“Maybe he just has small bones.”
“Maybe he just has small skin.”
Jordan emitted throat noise; snide amusement. “I’ll get back after we talk to Andy. Don’t worry about the show, it’s priority one. Don’t forget, if you know you’re gonna win, it isn’t a game. When you leaving for New York?”
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