Double Header

by Lee Goldberg

  "So he comes out of his trailer to see the car and stops, this horrified look on his face. I ask what's the matter? He says it's blue. I go, is that a problem, Mr. Lober? He says it certainly is, my psychic colorist told me blue is bad color for me this year. I can't have a blue car. I can't have blue in my life at all. Take it away."

  "It's not the first time you've had to deal with crazy actors."

  "Wait, it gets better. I couldn't return the car because it was a special order, it had all those options he wanted. So I took it to a body shop and had it painted red. I brought the car back to him this morning and he says what did you do? I tell him I had it painted. He says I can't take this car. I ask him why not? And he says because it's still a blue car underneath, you stupid bitch."

  She stared out the window, angry all over again. Charlie started to laugh.

  She glared at him and snapped: "What?"

  Which only made him laugh more.

  "I don't see what's so funny," she said, but was smiling despite herself. "Charlie!"

  But it was too late, she couldn't hold on to her anger in the face of Charlie's hearty laughter. She started laughing, too, and once she started, she couldn't stop.

  Charlie took her in a big, warm hug, and she rested her cheek against his broad chest, soothed by his laughter and his strong embrace.

  "Are we the only sane people in this business?" Alison asked, when she could finally catch her breath.

  "I'm afraid so," he replied, his laughter ebbing, gently stroking her hair. "You can't let them get to you, Alison, or one day you'll quit and I'll be out here all alone."

  Alison closed her eyes and pressed her hands against his strong back. She felt as long as he was here, nothing would ever bother her again.

  Charlie was looking out the window, and was just becoming aware of how nice, how comfortable, it felt having Alison in his arms, when he saw a black Hummer come through the front gate.

  * * * * * *

  Conrad Stipe had dreamt of this moment, hundreds of times, over the last twenty years. Just six months ago, he couldn't get a meeting with a custodian at The Company, much less the super-agent himself. Now he had an office at a studio, and Clive Odett was sitting on the other side of his desk, practically begging to represent him.

  Stipe adjusted his girdle, leaned back in his chair, and made a show of glancing at his diamond-studded Schaffhausen DaVinci Perpetual Calendar Chronograph. "Make it quick, Clive, I'm a very busy man."

  "I think, with the considerable resources of The Company behind you, we can take your career to the next level."

  Finally, after twenty five years, he was getting the success and recognition that he deserved, that was owed to him. Clive Odett coming down to see him confirmed that he was a major, industry player once again.

  "That's real nice, Clive. But I got agents falling all over themselves to sign me," he said, "What can you do for me the others can't?"

  Clive Odett knew there were no others. Once the series was a success, he was going to force Stipe out and put one of his younger, more talented, clients into place. Stipe could stay on as an executive consultant. Or die.

  "I think a multiple series deal, and a feature film commitment are well within reach," Odett said. "If I'm doing the reaching."

  Stipe wanted to sign that instant, but major players in the industry aren't desperate. They make other people desperate.

  "I'll consider it, Clive." Stipe stifled a smile. It was fun watching Odett squirm. He had the power, and he was going to use it.

  Odett casually took a folded paper out from inside his jacket and laid it gently on the desk. "This is a one time offer that expires in 90 seconds."

  Stipe sat still for a moment, shocked. Just like that, his power was taken from him. If he signed that paper, Odett was in control, and Stipe was forever a notch below him. He was tempted not to sign, just to show Odett who was boss. But Stipe knew who was boss.

  He snatched the paper before Odett could change his mind and signed it. Odett smiled thinly and tucked the paper into his jacket pocket.

  "You've made the right decision." With 89 seconds to spare, by Odett's calculations. "Now that we've got that out of the way, let's talk about the show."

  "It's going to be the biggest hit of the season," Stipe said.

  "Not with Chad Shaw," Odett replied. "Consider Dustin Woods instead."

  Stipe was wondering if maybe he was too hasty signing with Odett. How could Odett be a super agent, and recommend Dustin Woods over the hot star of a sensational hit series? Woods only series role was as the angst-ridden boyfriend of the angst-ridden girl in the short-lived drama Miserable Me.

  "Chad Shaw is the wet dream of every woman under 30 in America," Stipe said. "And we've got him on a five-year contract."

  "He's also a very unlucky young man. He's prone to all kinds of disfiguring accidents," Odett stood up and shook Stipe's hand. "My advice, think about Dustin."

  "Maybe we could have lunch at the club sometime," Stipe didn't belong to a club, but he figured Odett did. "If I can get away."

  "Getting away is impossible now, Conrad." Odett smiled and walked out.

  There was something about the way he said that which made Conrad Stipe, a major player in the industry, wish for one, insane moment that it all really was a dream.

  * * * * * *

  Odett emerged from Stipe's bungalow and was shocked to discover that his Hummer was gone. He hadn't bothered to set his alarm because nobody on the Pinnacle Studios lot would even dare touch his car. That his Hummer was gone was unthinkable.

  "You shouldn't have parked in Barry Van Dyke's spot," somebody said.

  The super agent turned and saw Charlie Willis leaning against the bungalow.

  "He's very sensitive about that," Charlie said. "And believe me, you wouldn't want to get on his bad side."

  "You had my car towed?" Odett asked in disbelief.

  "It wasn't easy. I had to get a special truck and everything. But we have rules around here, and the spot is clearly marked," Charlie said, pointing to sign mounted on the wall of the bungalow. "Visitor parking is across the lot."

  "Do you know who I am?" Odett hissed.

  "Oh yeah," Charlie got up and ambled over to Odett. "You're the greedy, power-mad asshole who tried to blackmail Spike Donovan and had Javier Grillo's fingers smashed. And I'm the guy who's going to stop you."

  So this was Charlie Willis. Hard to believe that this mouth-breather in off-the-rack clothes could have been such a nuisance.

  "I wondered when I would meet you," Odett smiled. "How's your sore throat?"

  "I feel fine, which is more than I can say for your man in Hawaii."

  "Everyone has a lucky day, Charlie," Odett said, knowing full well that Charlie wouldn't be having any more of them. "You should quit while you're ahead."

  "I won't quit until you're in jail."

  "The only power you have in this town is to get cars towed off the lot," Odett said. "Now that you've done it, you've already shot your load, you have no surprises left."

  Charlie nodded, started to turn, then whirled back around, hammering Odett with a right hook that knocked the super agent off his feet. It didn't change a thing, but it sure felt good.

  "Surprise," Charlie winked and walked away.

  Chapter Eleven

  The first thing Chad Shaw did with his first million dollars was buy a condo in the tallest building on the Wilshire corridor.

  As a struggling actor, he used to park on Mulholland at night, stare down at the glittering lights of the city, and promise himself that some day that would be his view, high above everyone else. Now his dream had come true.

  He was in the enviable position of having to come up with some new dreams. He decided to head up to Mulholland that night to work on them.

  When Chad Shaw emerged from the elevator into the underground parking garage, all he had on his mind was getting into his beautiful new Porsche and breaking a few speed limits.

  He had no
idea that Melvah Blenis was hiding behind the Allante to his left, a baseball bat in her hand.

  And Melvah Blenis had no idea that Zita was crouched behind the Suburban to his right, ready to wield her ginsu knife.

  Melvah swung her bat as Chad passed, striking him behind the knees. He dropped with a surprised, agonized shriek, and she clubbed him over the head. That's when Melvah looked up and found herself facing Zita across Chad's twitching body. Zita wore a black, leather outfit and a curious expression on her face. She also held a knife.

  Melvah had never seen a more beautiful woman in her life. She didn't want to kill her. There was a tense silence, broken only by Chad's whimpering. She wasn't quite sure what to say.

  "Does this bother you?" Melvah asked.

  Zita regarded the scene in front of her and, within a moment, saw it for the incredible opportunity that it was. She leaned over Chad, lifted his head up by the hair, and slit his throat. "Not particularly."

  She released his dead head, letting it thunk against the cement.

  Melvah sighed with relief. It was so nice to be dealing with a reasonable woman. She rested the bat on her shoulder and relaxed against the Allante. "Was this something personal?"

  Zita slipped the knife into the sheath on her belt and closed her jacket over it. "Strictly business."

  The woman's accent was strange, vaguely European, not unlike the Slave Princess of Naren-3. Melvah nodded. "Me, too."

  Zita admired the rings in Melvah's nose, lip, and ears, and the self-assured way she carried her bat. This was the first time since she got into this business that she'd met a woman with similar interests.

  "Can I buy you a latte?" Zita asked, her bizarre accent giving way to a true, Texas twang.

  "Sure," Melvah said. "I'd like that."

  Zita bent down, took Chad's wallet from his back pocket, and pulled out a couple hundred bucks in stiff, fresh twenties. "Chad's treat."

  * * * * * *

  "I could get to like having a driver," Kim said, following Charlie into her kitchen. "Gives me an extra half-hour or so to think."

  "Did you think of anyone else who might have broken in the other night?"

  She gave him a look. "I have a few other things on my mind."

  "I don't." Charlie walked past her and checked out the living room.

  "You're not running a television network," she followed him out.

  "Tell you what, I'll think about the network for a while if you think about who could be trying to intimidate you."

  Charlie went up the stairs and stuck his head into each room. She stayed in the living room, watching him search the house.

  "Okay, where do you think I should schedule Beyond the Beyond, keeping in mind that the entire network is riding on its success."

  "What makes Beyond the Beyond so important?" he stood on the landing that stretched across the entry hall.

  "It's the draw, Charlie," she said. "It's what's going to get all those 18-35 year olds to sample us. They'll switch from their favorite series on UBC because Captain Pierce, Mr. Snork and Dr. Kelvin were in their homes every day when they were growing up. They want to see them again. We will have a massive tune in that first night. During that hour, we'll hit them with a barrage of promos for our other shows and hope they stick around to watch them. Once they do, we have them hooked."

  Satisfied that everything was okay, Charlie came down the spiral staircase. "And if you didn't have Beyond the Beyond?"

  "It might take us months to get the same sampling, if ever."

  "Then it doesn't matter what night you schedule it," Charlie said. "Flip a coin."

  "Now you know why I'm the president of the Big Network and you are a—," she paused, looking at him. "What are you, Charlie?"

  "The help," he replied.

  Kim smiled. "How would the help like a glass of wine?"

  "I'd feel a lot less disgruntled."

  She went into the kitchen to get the wine. Charlie settled into one of the chrome seats. It was even more uncomfortable than it looked. This wasn't a house, it was a movie set. It was made to be looked at, not lived in.

  Kim screamed, a deep, shrieking wail of terror so primal, so instinctive, there wasn't a creature on earth that could mistake it's meaning.

  Charlie bolted out of his seat and ran into the kitchen. Kim staggered back from the open refrigerator and into his arms.

  He held her tight and looked in the refrigerator. The shelves were crammed with dismembered arms and legs, severed ears and plucked out eyeballs.

  His first reaction was revulsion, but instead of looking away, he couldn't take his eyes off of the grotesque sight.

  Something wasn't right about it. Not a drop of blood, no jagged strips of flesh…

  It was too clean.

  He took a step closer and saw the refrigerator light reflecting off the shiny, plastic surfaces of the severed limbs.

  Mannequins.

  "It's okay," Charlie said. "They aren't real."

  She was shaking. He stroked her hair and rocked her gently, her face nuzzled against his chest, soothing her while he thought about the mystery intruder.

  First the guy pees all over the house. What does that say?

  I own you and I can get you.

  Then the guy fills the frig with fake body parts. Put the two incidents together, and it gets more ominous.

  I own you, and I'll chop you into little pieces if you don't do what I want.

  Now the question was - what was it the guy wanted? Kim knew, Charlie was certain of that, and she wasn't telling.

  What she was doing instead was moving herself against him, her hands caressing his back.

  "Protect me," she murmured.

  "I will," he said, trying ignore the quickening of his pulse, "but I can't if you aren't honest with me."

  She let her hands drift down his back to his ass and grabbed hold, forcing him even closer. He felt himself begin to harden, and knew she could feel it, too.

  "Who is doing this to you, Kim?" Charlie put his hands on her waist and tried to gently push her away, even as he ached for more.

  "You are," she lifted her face to his and kissed him, her tongue slipping between his lips, her pelvis grinding against him more deliberately now, making him need her, too.

  Even as his hands slid up under her shirt, kneading the smooth skin of her back, he knew he couldn't let this happen, no matter how good it felt, no matter how many months it had been since he'd made love.

  He broke away from her, breathing hard. "Kim, we have to talk."

  "Later," she reached for his zipper. He grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

  Kim flashed a devilish grin. "Tell me you don't want me, Charlie, and I'll stop."

  "I don't want you," said Charlie with as much conviction as he could muster, which wasn't much.

  She wrenched her wrist free and back-handed him across the face. "You bastard."

  And with that, she stormed out of the kitchen, leaving him with a hard-on and a refrigerator full of fake body parts.

  * * * * * *

  "My Daddy was a butcher. He ran the family slaughterhouse business in Texas. I spent my childhood knee-deep in cow guts," Zita said. "But he taught me to respect knives and a clean cut of meat."

  Melvah leaned across the tiny Starbuck's table and lit Zita's cigarette with her miniature photon gun lighter, an authentic replica of the weapon the muck gerbils of Antaire Prime carried in their scrotums.

  "But I knew the slaughterhouse was going to my brothers, and that I was expected to marry, do laundry, and have kids," she blew out a stream of smoke. "I wanted something more. I had two things going for me - good looks and butchery. So I decided the entertainment industry was my calling."

  She went on to tell Melvah that she knew it wouldn't be easy breaking in. She started out working in a temp agency, and soon learned that all the best jobs went to women with European accents. So she changed her name (from Etta Mae Pettigrew) and adopted an indecipherable accent, an improv mix o
f French and Italian. Overnight, she found herself temping at The Company.

  She turned a temp job at The Company into a permanent position by catching Clive Odett's attention with her accent and her skin-tight clothes. She also found the woman she was subbing for and stabbed her to death. Through this kind of hard work and initiative, she became Clive Odett's personal assistant.

  Melvah thought it was an inspirational story, something all women could learn from, and told her so.

  "Ultimately, what I want," Zita said, snubbing out her cigarette, "is to run The Company. What do you want?"

  Melvah studied her photon lighter. "No one understands Beyond the Beyond like I do. My life has been those characters, that universe. My fanfic has kept it all alive. I'm the only one qualified to tell their story. All the fans know that."

  Zita reached out and wiped a tear from Melvah's cheek.

  Melvah didn't even realize she was crying. She was laying herself open for this woman. Even though they'd only known each other a few hours, they had shared so much. She took Zita's hand and held it in her own.

  "I'm sorry, it's just that Beyond the Beyond means so much to me." Melvah looked Zita in the eye. "It makes me sick to see what they're doing to it. They're greedy hacks, pretenders, frauds. They've never read the fanfic, they know nothing about how the universe has grown since the series ended."

  "You want to produce, don't you?"

  Melvah squeezed Zita's hand and nodded. "I'd like to see Guy Goddard back in the Captain's chair, but the really important thing is to have the right person in command behind the camera. That person is me."

  "I'll be honest with you, Melvah. I've never seen the show, but I respect what it means to you. And I know you could run it better than anyone else in the business, because you care."

  Melvah stroked Zita's hand, lingering on her long fingers and sharp nails. "Maybe we can help each other get what we want."

  Zita brought Melvah's hand to her lips and kissed it tenderly. "I'm sure we can."