Rough Cut

by Brian Pinkerton

  Wiggins froze for a moment and the director yelled, “And stop. Great, Walter. Do you want to run through it one more time for safety?”

  “No,” said Wiggins.

  The cameras quickly repositioned. The lighting scheme changed, and within minutes the interview was ready to commence.

  Wiggins faced Harry. He cleared his throat and adjusted his butt.

  Harry felt butterflies. He wasn’t used to being on the other end of the cameras.

  “Mr. Tuttle, thank you for being here today,” said Wiggins.

  “It’s my pleasure. Thanks for inviting me.”

  “How low is low-budget?”

  Harry blinked. “Well...our movies typically cost about four hundred thousand dollars. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But we typically keep it under a million.”

  “Remarkable —because you’re competing with the big boys who are spending twenty or thirty times that, just on marketing and advertising.”

  “That’s why we have to create a really good product, submit to film festivals, and hope word of mouth will do the marketing and advertising for us.”

  “So what do you do for special effects? Ketchup for blood, that kind of thing?”

  Harry laughed. “Not ketchup. It’s Karo syrup and red food coloring. But we do get a lot of mileage out of a shoestring. We have a clip of an exploding car that we’ve reused in several of our movies. We use as many real locations as possible to avoid the cost of building sets. And we don’t hire big name stars —we’re looking to discover new talent.”

  “In fact, sometimes you put your investors in your movies?”

  “Yes. It’s a perk.”

  Wiggins chuckled, and Harry felt gratified somehow that he’d made the pompous man laugh.

  “Deadly Desires,” said Wiggins, pausing a moment to reflect.

  “Yes?” said Harry.

  “Knocked me out. Really a great film. As you probably know, I wasn’t a fan of your earlier pictures; but now you’ve seemed to find a way to make the low-budget work for you, not against you. I was so captivated by the whole set up, the archeological site, the tombs, the Aztec empire, and how you took this ancient murder ritual based in fact, and brought it to the modern age with some clever twists and turns. It’s really a sly morality play.”

  “Thank you,” said Harry. He hoped Marcus Stegman would never see this TV special.

  “So...the entire movie was shot on videotape, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “But it’s showing in movie theaters. It looks like a film. How does that work?”

  “Modern technology,” replied Harry. “After it’s shot in digital video, it gets stored on computer hard drives; and the footage goes through a process to add more grain and contrast to give it a film-like appearance. Then, typically, we go straight to DVD and cable TV, but the advance buzz on this one was so good, we decided to test market a theatrical release. We had a few prints made, taking the video and transferring it to 35 millimeter. It’s an expensive gamble, but the showings did well, the reviews were good, and suddenly, boom, it’s a hit.”

  “The beauty of this,” said Wiggins, “is that it tells any kid in America that he or she can be a filmmaker. You no longer need to make this big investment in professional camera equipment and big crews. You can just go to your local Wal-Mart or Best Buy, get a few things and get started.”

  “It’s a mixed blessing,” conceded Harry, “because you have a lot of product fighting for attention, and a lot of good work getting buried in the tidal wave of truly amateurish productions. It’s like the publishing industry, with all these inexpensive self-publishing options, anybody can get into the marketplace without the traditional quality control filters.”

  “Indeed,” said Wiggins. “You wouldn’t believe how many self-produced, homemade DVDs I receive that go straight into the trash. I just don’t have the time to wade through them all —even if there was a gem waiting to be discovered in the mix.”

  “It’s hard to rise above the clutter,” said Harry. “Often you need connections.” He was thinking about Stegman again. He couldn’t help it.

  “I want to talk some more about Deadly Desires,” said Wig-gins.

  “Sure,” replied Harry.

  “The performers —I really enjoyed the natural performances. I know these kids are all unknowns, but where do you find them? Do you put Help Wanted ads in the paper?”

  Harry said, “Not quite. But close. I like to go to local colleges, meet with drama students. I have a few connections at acting schools. I’m not picky. I’m just looking for anyone who is young and eager, and can recite lines.”

  “And cheap.”

  “Of course.”

  “In Deadly Desires, the performances are all quite good, but there’s one young woman who stands out in particular, Sandra Ross. Boy, she’s good. Where did you find her?”

  Harry drew a blank. There was utter silence. He hesitated for a long moment. Now they were getting specific about Deadly Desires. Now he would have to lie.

  “Where did I find her?” said Harry, repeating the question to buy himself a few more seconds. “Well, word of mouth. Friends. I know her mother’s cousin.”

  Wiggins nodded. “I thought she was splendid.”

  “Me too.”

  “What else has she done?”

  Harry felt a dribble of sweat roll down his cheek. “You know, this must have been her first role. I really don’t know...”

  “Will we see her again in your future productions?”

  “I wouldn’t rule it out. As long as she doesn’t raise her price.”

  Wiggins chuckled. “What does she think about all this newfound fame and fortune? From obscurity to the big screen. It must be every young kid’s dream.”

  “She’s very excited,” said Harry.

  “So you keep in touch with her?”

  Harry felt his mouth getting dry. He wanted the water. Under the hot lights, this bombardment of difficult questions was beginning to feel like a police interrogation. I never should have agreed to this interview. I’m going to blow it.

  “Sure,” said Harry. “I like to keep in touch with all my actors and actresses. We’re just one big happy family.”

  After the taping concluded, the bright lights snapped off and the studio erupted with a flurry of activity and voices. The soundman removed Harry’s mike. Harry noticed his armpits had sweated through his shirt and hoped the camera hadn’t picked it up.

  Wiggins lifted himself out of his chair with a groan.

  “Wally, great job!” said the director, walking up.

  Wiggins ignored him, turning to Harry. “Good interview. I think we got what we need.”

  “Great. When will this air?”

  “Two weeks. I have one more director coming in on Monday. Phyllis Ranger, does documentaries.”

  Harry was anxious to leave the studio and began inching away.

  “Harry,” said Wiggins. “Listen. For our segment, I’d like to spice it up with clips. Some short clips from your earlier work, funny ones that show the cheapness. Then a longer scene or two from Deadly Desires. Something with impact.”

  “No problem. You can use any of our stuff. We’ll get you clearance.”

  “Also,” said Wiggins, “I’d like to tape a quick interview with Sandra Ross. Just for a few sound bites when we go to the clips. I want someone from the film who can speak to your directing style and all that, maybe tell a cute story about the production, something behind the scenes. Where could I reach Sandra?”

  “Oh,” said Harry. He answered slowly, carefully, choosing his words in advance. “I’m not sure about Sandra. She —I’d have to get back to you on that. I’d have to check her availability.”

  “Don’t worry about her availability. We’ll set it up. I just need contact information.”

  “Sure. I’ll get that to you.”

  “The sooner the better. If you can’t reach me, give it to Diane.”

  “Right,” sa
id Harry, then speaking his biggest lie of the day, “No problem.”

  21

  Harry drove with a map in his lap, prowling San Gabriel for the ranch house on Del Marino that belonged to Marcus Stegman.

  Once he found it, he groaned.

  The house and yard were a neglected mess, an eyesore in a neighborhood that worked hard to maintain its modest properties. Harry mumbled, “Stupid kid; all that money and he can’t clean up the place?”

  An occasional raindrop hit the windshield. The deepening gray skies promised more on the way. Harry turned off the engine and watched the droplets multiply on the glass.

  Well, thought Harry, here goes.

  He opened the door and climbed out of his car, followed the broken concrete walkway to the front steps. Tiny jolts of rain hit his neck and arms.

  Harry pressed the doorbell, heard nothing, figured it was broken and knocked.

  A young man with a wild, reddish beard answered the door in his bare feet. He wore a blue T-shirt and jeans. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed over. He looked familiar, but Harry couldn’t place him.

  “Harry Tuttle,” the bearded man said in a deep voice.

  “Yes. You know my name?”

  “Of course.” He turned and called into the house, “Marcus, it’s Harry Tuttle.” Then he gestured Harry inside. “I’m one of Marcus’s roommates. I worked with him on the movie.”

  “Oh, hi,” said Harry. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same.” They shook hands.

  The living room —if you could call it a room for living —overflowed with filmmaking equipment. So this is where the money goes...thought Harry. Then he saw the large bong. And there, too.

  “Mr. Tuttle,” greeted Marcus Stegman upon entering the room, also in jeans and a T-shirt, his ponytail tied back behind his head. “Any trouble finding the house?”

  “No,” said Harry.

  “You must come see my museum.”

  “Your museum?”

  “Follow me.”

  Stegman brought Harry to a room in the back of the house, filled with shelves and cabinets of horror movie memorabilia. The walls displayed posters and framed lobby cards. A seven-foot replica of the monster from Alien stood in one corner. A dingy coffin rested on the floor. Harry saw Bela Lugosi’s fedora sitting on the head of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. He also saw “The Soul” from Soul Snatchers prominently displayed. It made Harry proud for a moment.

  “The Los Angeles Museum of Horror Movie History,” proclaimed Stegman.

  “Impressive,” said Harry, taking it all in. On the counter next to him he saw a Hellraiser figurine, a voodoo shrunken head, spaceship models, ghastly rubber masks, a machete painted with blood, fake limbs, and an eyeball. It was like a toy store in hell.

  Stegman identified several items, pointing around the room. “Glenn Strange’s boots from when he played the Frankenstein monster in House of Frankenstein, 1945. Those fangs — from Taste the Blood of Dracula, Christopher Lee. Over here, Linda Blair’s nightgown from The Exorcist. And this...” Stegman gestured proudly to a framed watercolor painting of a lighthouse on a rocky coast. “Painted by none other than Vincent Price. Did you know he was an artist?”

  “Where do you find all this stuff?” “Auctions. Online. Other collectors. All over. Places that specialize in movie memorabilia.” “You really should save a few extra dollars for a lawn service.” “I’ll get to it. Jesus, you sound like my landlord. Here, I want to show you my home theater.”

  Stegman led Harry into a room turned into an entertainment heaven, with a 60-inch Plasma screen, state-of-the-art surround sound system, gigantic speakers, two rows of authentic theater seats, and a back wall of shelves jammed with hundreds of DVDs. The windows had been sealed shut to block out the light. It was more impressive than the screening room at PJ Productions.

  Stegman boasted, “I’ve got every horror movie you could imagine. From Lon Chaney senior to junior, from Dracula to Carrie, from the classics to the obscure.” He pulled a DVD case off the shelf. “This one here —bet you’ve never even heard of it. Silent Scream, 1980, Yvonne De Carlo, Barbara Steele. I need to watch at least two or three of these a day. It gets my adrenaline going, pumps the blood through my veins.”

  “It’s quite a collection.”

  “Funded by you, Mr. Tuttle. Would you like to see a scene from your favorite horror movie? I’ll bet I have it. I’ll crank up the speakers for you.”

  “No,” said Harry. “I don’t have a lot of time. Listen. I came for a reason. We need to talk.”

  “Oh,” said Stegman. “Sure. We’ll talk. Have a seat. They’re real comfy.”

  Harry sat down in one of the theater seats. It was comfy. Stegman sat next to him.

  “So what’s up?” asked Stegman.

  “Well,” sighed Harry, “I need your help with something. I did an interview earlier today with Walter Wiggins...”

  “The short fat guy from Flick Picks,” said Stegman.

  “Yes. We taped an interview on Deadly Desires and talked about low-budget films, and now he wants to do a brief interview with one of the actresses, Sandra Ross. I’ll also need some extras for the DVD, a featurette thing, so we’ll probably want to interview her for that as well. We need to proceed very carefully —as you know, I don’t want anything to happen —anything to be said by your people — that would compromise our special deal. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  “Of course.”

  “Everyone associated with this film needs to maintain the secret.”

  “Yes. Yes, I know. You met Terrance?”

  Harry shrugged.

  “The guy who answered the door —you know, from Deadly Desires. He has a beard and longer hair now, but he played Michael, the lead character. The killer.”

  It hit Harry all at once: Stegman’s roommate was the star of Deadly Desires. “Oh my God, you’re right. I barely recognized him. He looked familiar, but I didn’t make the connection.”

  “You could interview him.”

  “Frankly,” said Harry, “I’d rather not. He looks like he’s high. I don’t care what he does in his spare time, but if we put him in an interview situation...There’s a lot at risk if he slips up.”

  “No, he’ll be fine,” said Stegman.

  “They want Sandra Ross,” said Harry.

  “Sandra Ross.”

  “Right. I need to know where to find her. We’ve got to prep her before Wiggins contacts her.”

  Stegman nodded, giving it deep thought. “Sandra Ross. OK. Interesting.”

  “Do you have a phone number where she can be reached?”

  “Sandra? No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Or an address.”

  “No address.”

  This stopped Harry for a beat. He said, “But I thought you said you were tight with these people. You said it was a small circle of friends.”

  “Not everybody,” said Stegman. “Sandra was an outsider. Someone we recruited.”

  “So you don’t know where she came from?”

  “I know where she came from.”

  “You just don’t know where she is now.”

  “I know where she is now.”

  “You know?” Harry’s confusion rolled into exasperation. “Then why are you playing games with me?”

  “I’m not playing games with you.”

  Harry asked again, firmly, “Do you know where I can find Sandra Ross?”

  “Yes,” said Stegman, “but it’s not going to help you any.”

  “Then tell me where she is, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You’re going to need a shovel.”

  Harry paused. He studied Stegman’s face. “What does that mean?”

  Stegman smiled an off-balance, cracked smile. “You’re not going to get an interview out of Sandra Ross,” he said.

  “Why? What happened to her?”

  “You saw the movie. She was stabbed to death on the altar of sacrifice in the City of the Gods in
Mexico.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Harry quickly. “In the movie.”

  Stegman didn’t respond, still smiling, eyes blank.

  Harry broke out into a smile of his own. “Okay. Cute. So what are you saying? She’s really dead?”

  “It was an artistic decision, Harry.”

  “Right. Okay, joke’s over. Good laugh. Now where is she, really?”

  “I’m not joking, Mr. Tuttle,” said Stegman.

  Harry dropped his smile. He became very serious, studying Stegman for any clues; but the blankness offered none.

  “Listen,” said Harry, voice wavering. “Stop the games. You have to find her, Marcus. There’s a lot at stake here. My career —”

  “No can do,” said Stegman.

  “What do you mean, ‘no can do’?”

  “She’s dead, Harry.”

  At that moment, Harry noticed Terrance and a creepy, dark-skinned young man standing in the doorway of the entertainment room, observing the conversation. Harry’s eyes darted from them back to Stegman.

  Harry felt his body grow prickly with perspiration. His breathing became tight.

  “You’re telling me you killed someone...and taped it...in front of a film crew?”

  “There was no ‘crew,’ Harry. Just the three of us. And Sandra.”

  “But why?”

  “That’s a silly question. To make it more exciting, of course.”

  Harry exploded. The madness of the conversation had overwhelmed him completely. He jumped out of his chair. He clenched his hands into fists, stuck his face in front of Stegman and screamed, “To make it more exciting? Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Harry, don’t shout at me,” said Stegman. “What the hell is going on here? What happened to Sandra Ross?” Stegman rose from his chair. He spoke vehemently, breaking out of his blank zone with a quivering, wild look in his eyes.

  In that instant, staring into his face, hearing his words, Harry realized for the first time, that Stegman was over-theedge, criminally insane.

  “Listen to me, Harry,” said Stegman. “The slaughter of Sandra Ross is the moment everybody remembers. Haven’t you read your reviews? ‘As electrifying as the shower sequence in Psycho!’”