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by Lee Goldberg

  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?"

  "I could do that," Charlie said. "Or I could tell the police what I know."

  "But there's no proof, the publicity would embarrass the studio, and the movie would be ruined before it even opened," Nick said, cocky and self-confident, as if acting out a scene he intended to write. "So you'll do the smart thing, forget about it, work on your tan for a couple days, maybe let me arrange for a couple hula girls to lick your sugar cane."

  "That's one way to go," Charlie said. "Another would be for me to call your wife."

  "No, you will not do that," Nick shook his finger at him, as if Charlie was a miss-behaving actor daring to adlib a couple lines in the scene.

  Charlie looked him in the eyes. "I did that."

  "Bullshit," Nick's hand, the one holding the drink, was beginning to shake.

  "I told her I sat outside your bedroom door while you had sex with Susie Glot, and that I would gladly testify to that fact in any court proceeding."

  Nick's whole arm was shaking now, the drink sloshing all over his hand, but the screenwriter didn't seem to notice. "Do you have any idea how much your little prank will cost me?"

  "Not nearly as much as Javier Grillo paid," Charlie turned and walked away.

  * * * * * *

  The new, twentysomething cast of Beyond the Beyond assembled on the bridge of the starship Endeavor for the first time in full make-up and uniforms. There were no lines to learn, no complicated shots to set up. All they had to do was stand together for a couple quick publicity photos for the fall preview edition of TV Guide.

  Alison knew it should be easy. Alison also knew it wouldn't be. Nothing concerned an actor more then their PR, so what the photo session would be was a sneak preview of tantrums and fights to come all season long.

  And they'd all come complaining to her, and she'd try to solve their problems before they went crying to their agents, managers, lawyers, publicists, shrinks, psychics, nutritionists, astrologers, stylists, herbalists, colorists, meteorologists and significant others of whatever sex or species they might be.

  Chad Shaw just came off a single lead action show. She figured the new Capt. Pierce wasn't going to share the camera, or anything else, with anyone. Leigh Dickson was a recent grad of the Royal Shakespeare theater who flaunted his British accent and felt superior to everyone in the room, even if he was the only person wearing an elephant nose. And Spring Dano, totally obsessed w
ith her body, was a natural for Dr. Kelvin, even if her qualifications for the role weren't.

  This ensemble promised to be living hell. And that was just the forecast for today.

  Chad stood in the center of the bridge, flanked by his co-stars. The photographer had only taken one shot when the trouble started.

  "This isn't working." Chad glared at Leigh. "His nose is casting a shadow on my face."

  Alison's irritation was momentarily deflected by a feeling of pride that her assessment of the situation was right on the mark.

  "And this is not the best angle for my boobs," Spring whined, adjusting her breasts in her low-cut uniform, the heavy, electronic ports on her chest drawing the neck-line even lower. "They'd look much better if I was standing on Chad's right."

  The cast's behavior, while aggravating, did re-affirm for Alison that she was indeed a professional, that she really understood her business, and that she was damn good at it.

  "Your breasts looks delightful from any vantage point, darling." Leigh said condescendingly. "But I really must stay here because, as I've learned from my years on the stage, this is my good side."

  "It won't be anymore if you don't do something about your fucking nose," Chad said.

  Leigh swung around sharply to face Chad, inadvertently slapping himself in the cheek with his floppy nose. "You'd appreciate the emotive advantages of a physical prop for an actor if you had any formal training. Obviously, you've never played Cyrano De Bergerac on the West End, as I have."

  "No," Chad replied, "I was busy pulling thirty-seven grand an episode on my own TV series, dick nose."

  Now she was irritated. Alison clapped her hands together and spoke up in her most up-beat, non-confrontational voice. "I have an idea. Let's take a break and do some individual shots while we re-think the group picture. Why don't we start with Chad in the Captain's chair."

  Chad immediately settled into the chair and struck a heroic pose, his anger forgotten now that he was the center of attention once again, the photographer moving around the chair, snapping pictures.

  Leigh went back to his canvas director's chair, making a big show out of taking a dog-earred copy of Ulysses out of his script pouch and reading it.

  Alison found Spring at the craft services table, her paper plate overflowing with cheddar cheese, M&Ms, pretzels and guacamole.

  Spring caught Alison staring at her plate. "You're asking yourself, how does she keep that to-die-for body if she eats like that? I'm not anorexic, if that's what you're worried about, though I used to be."

  "Really? I had no idea." Alison didn't have to. Anorexia was such a popular disorder, it was nearly a requirement. Most actresses put it on their resume under "related skills" just to be safe.

  "Usually, I only eat yogurt and tofu, but I'm having my period," Spring explained. "You know how that is."

  No, Alison thought, I left my uterus in the car today. She quickly changed the subject. "This photo session is so exciting for me. Seeing you together on the bridge, you can just feel the chemistry. I think you're all going to bring a thrilling, new energy to the show."

  Spring smiled, obviously flattered. "It's my new look." She set her plate down and puffed up her chest. "These are new."

  To Alison, it looked like someone had surgically implanted a couple basketballs in her chest. "They look natural to me."

  "They're my third set," Spring said. "I was born with a couple A cups, like yours, but they didn't stand out and say woman to me."

  Or NBA. The thought kept Alison smiling.

  "I tried some large Bs," Spring said. "They worked for me on The Cheerleader Gang for three seasons. But I knew if I kept them, I'd be typecast as teenager. I had to grow up. I needed adult breasts. So, this summer I went back to my surgeon and traded up to C cups."

  Alison searched her brain for something positive to say. "And you became the perfect combination of talent and beauty we needed to bring Dr. Kelvin into the 90s."

  "I grew up watching the show," Spring tossed a couple M&Ms into her mouth. "A generation of women were empowered by Dr. Kelvin. She was one of the first, true feminist characters on television."

  Certainly the first with computer breasts, Alison thought, then realized, from the quizzical look on Spring's face, that she'd actually said what she was thinking.

  "It was a wonderful, ironic statement against the sexual objectification of woman," Alison covered quickly, then hurried away before she could embarrass herself any further.

  Leigh Dickson was peering over the top of his book at Spring, thinking how much he looked forward to downloading from her computers, when Alison came up to him.

  "I hope you don't take Chad's comments personally," Alison said. "He's under a lot of pressure."

  "It's good for the show. We can play that tension in our performance," Leigh said. "I like to incorporate my personal reality into the broader, theatrical experience. It's something I learned doing Equus. I get along well with horses and most other farm animals, and I think that came across."

  "That's great," Alison's suddenly felt as if the walls of the soundstage were closing in on her. "Excuse me."

  She bolted for the door, feeling a desperate need for air, not that it was any fresher outside. Even so, once outdoors, she took deep, satisfying breaths of smog. Even the pollution she was drawing into her lungs was a relief from being around those actors. Another few minutes out here, collecting herself, and she could go back in, restage the group shot, and move on to the next crisis.

  Alison was chewing nervously on her pony-tail when she happened to glance at the studio gate, and saw the fat woman with the elephant nose and the "I Snork" t-shirt peering through the bars, her eyes burning with hatred. A tour bus rolled past Alison, blocking her view of the gate for a moment, tourists snapping pictures of her in case she was someone famous. When the bus passed, the elephant woman was gone, and Alison seriously wondered if she was ever there at all.

  * * * * * *

  After three screwdrivers, six bags of peanuts, and forty excruciating minutes of Waiting to Exhale, Charlie finally had the nerve to call Alison from the airplane using the "airfone" in the seat-back in front of him.

  His trip to Hawaii had been a disaster, and the bad publicity would no doubt embarrass Alison, maybe even cost her job. He wouldn't blame her if she fired him. In fact, he was expecting it.

  Canoga Stor-All, here I come.

  She picked up on the first ring.

  "It's me," Charlie said, struck by what a stupid, obvious thing that was to say, yet that's how everyone everywhere who knew each other well introduced themselves over the phone.

  "The connection is terrible," she said, sitting in her office at Pinnacle. "Are you on location?"

  "I'm on a Delta airlines jet, two hours outside of LA."

  "That was quick," she said. "You must be a pretty smooth talker to make Nick Alamogordo feel safe enough to let you go in just one day."

  He sat up in his seat. "Haven't you heard about Javier Grillo?"

  "Who's he?"

  That explained why she was being so pleasant. She didn't know. This was even worse. Now he'd have to tell her, endure her shock and fury, and then get fired.

  "He was the guy doing the production rewrite on Cop A Feel," Charlie said, "at least until a Company agent broke his hands with a hammer."

  "What?"

  "You haven't heard the worst of it," Charlie said. "The agent is dead."

  Charlie told her what happened and that he was certain it was all part of a deal Clive Odett struck with Nick Alamogordo.

  But Charlie, being a loyal studio employee, didn't implicate Nick Alamogordo in his statement to the police or tell them about the contract he swiped.

  What he didn't tell her was if he had the evidence to back up his theory, he would have told the police, regardless of who signed his paycheck. Not that he would be getting any more of those after this conversation.

  There was a long silence on the phone. For a moment, Charlie thought
he'd lost the connection, then realized Alison must be searching for the right words to fire him. He decided to save her the trouble.

  "If you want my resignation," Charlie said. "I can have it on your desk in the morning."

  "Why would I want that?" Alison said, surprised that her heart was racing, that the idea of losing Charlie Willis frightened her.

  "Because my job is to protect your people and keep negative publicity out of the papers," Charlie said. "I failed on both counts."

  Alison covered the mouthpiece and took a deep breath. They'd never had anything but a strictly professional relationship. What did she care if he left? She'd just hire another "troubleshooter" and be done with it.

  But she knew that wasn't true. At some point, and maybe it was right now, it became important to her not to lose him.

  "You had no way of knowing this was going to happen. On the contrary, we should be giving you a bonus," she said. "You could have been killed. Besides, we need you."

  And so do I, she thought, then realized she'd actually said aloud what she was thinking, again. If this continued, she'd have to stop thinking altogether.

  "Because we have another problem, and I don't think I can find anyone else on such short notice," she spoke in a rush, before he could give her slip-of-the-tongue too much thought.

  "What's up?" Charlie asked.

  "Someone broke into Kimberly Woodrell's house and urinated on the walls."

  It clearly wasn't a random act of vandalism. This was personal. Charlie couldn't help wondering if the Company was involved in this, too, perhaps trying to intimidate some concessions of some kind from the new network.

  "Do the police have any leads?"

  "They weren't called," Alison said. "We want to keep this quiet and so does she. She's asked for round-the-clock protection and you're it."

  If Clive Odett wanted the Big Network, he'd have to go through Charlie Willis to do it. "I'll go straight there from the airport."

  After they said their good-byes, Alison stared at the phone. What she told Charlie was true, she was only afraid to lose him because there was no one else she could trust to protect Kimberly Woodrell.