Rough Cut

by Brian Pinkerton

  Wiggins removed his checkered pink and yellow sports jacket and tossed it in the back seat. He stuffed himself behind the steering wheel and slammed the door. He twisted the key in the ignition.

  The roar of his engine drowned out the sound of a second car engine that promptly kicked up nearby.

  Wiggins flipped on his headlights.

  Forty feet away, the other car flipped on its headlights.

  Wiggins backed out of his parking space and headed for the parking lot exit.

  The second car followed Wiggins out of the parking lot and into the street.

  Wiggins didn’t pay any attention to the second car. It was probably a member of the studio crew, or one of the office boys. Nothing to warrant a second thought. His mind was on more important things.

  Harry Tuttle. Sandra Ross. Deadly Desires. And singlehandedly uncovering the biggest, most shocking Hollywood scandal in the history of the movies.

  Shooting down Sunset Boulevard, illuminated by the shining lights of L.A. nightlife, Walter Wiggins began rehearsing his acceptance speech for the Pulitzer Prize.

  27

  Maria opened the apartment door and greeted Harry. She wore a black leotard that clung to her trim, athletic build. She puffed a strand of hair away from her face.

  “Rachel’s getting ready; she’ll be with you in a sec. I was just doing my stretching exercises. Come in —make yourself comfortable.”

  Harry walked to the couch and sat down on the center cushion. Maria said, “I heard you got great seats to the Lakers game.”

  Harry shrugged. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Look at you, all blasé.” She told him about her friend, Michelle, a Laker Girl. “She’s so lucky. What a great gig, you’re on TV, like every night. It’s amazing exposure.”

  “Oh shit,” said Harry. His eye caught the new edition of Entertainment Weekly magazine on the coffee table in front of him. It was open to an article on Deadly Desires: a full-page photograph of Harry stood alongside the headline “The High Art of Low-budget.” Harry promptly shut the magazine.

  “Great article,” said Maria. “Don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know; I haven’t read it,” said Harry.

  “Really?” She couldn’t believe it. “If Entertainment Weekly magazine was writing about me, I’d want to read it. I’d buy every copy I could find. But I guess it’s different when you’re famous.”

  “I’m not famous,” said Harry. “I’m just the flavor of the month. Six months from now, they’ll be saying ‘Harry who?’”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. Then Rachel entered the room —and Harry’s heart skipped a beat —because she was altogether gorgeous despite being packaged in a simple white blouse and jeans. Her warm blue eyes and genuine smile lit him up inside.

  She hugged him, and he held her tight. “Good to see you,” he said. “Good to see you, Harry.” Maria moved to another part of the room to give them space. Harry told Rachel, “You’re the only thing that’s going right in my life.” “What’s wrong?” She looked him over with concern. “Things are just...crazy.” “Bad day at the office?” “You could say that.” “You look a little tired.” “I am. I’m taking a break from work for a while.” “Good. You deserve some time off. You’ve been so busy.” “I want some of my privacy back. You don’t realize how much you appreciate it until you lose it.” Rachel perked up then and said, “Hey, stay right there. I have something to show you. It’s cool. Don’t move.” “Okay...” She bounded out of the room and returned moments later with something rolled up into a tube shape. “Look what I got.”

  Rachel unrolled the tube to reveal the movie poster for Deadly Desires: a garish montage of frightened faces, including Sandra Ross, split down the middle by a large blade.

  Harry had to look away.

  Rachel said, “My friend Jay works at Mann Theatres, and I begged him for it; and he finally gave in. I’m going to have it framed.”

  “Great,” said Harry without emotion, looking across the room at a blank wall.

  “Will you sign it for me?”

  “Not right now —I’m not really —maybe some other time.”

  Disappointed by his bland reaction, she rolled up the poster. She examined him. “What’s wrong? It’s your movie poster. I thought you’d be flattered.”

  He stepped over and touched her arm, trying to sooth her confusion. “I’m just...I guess I’m tired of talking about that movie and seeing it everywhere. You know, I’ve made other movies.”

  “But not like this one,” said Rachel. “Harry, this is the movie that brought us together.”

  “How do you mean?”

  She put aside the poster and took Harry’s hands. She looked into his eyes.

  “After I saw the rave review on Flick Picks, I went to see the movie and I loved it. It was incredible. That’s when I realized how amazing you are. Your other movies —well, they didn’t have the same effect on me. But when I watched Deadly Desires, it scared me; it excited me; it stirred something up inside; and I thought to myself, ‘I’ve got to give this guy a closer look.’ And I’m glad I did.”

  Harry pushed out a small chuckle. “But it’s really not that good. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.”

  “You’re so modest,” exclaimed Rachel. “That one scene —the murder in the woods at the start with that girl —the way she’s screaming and he keeps stabbing her — God, I get chills just thinking about it.”

  “We better get to the Staples Center or we’re going to be late for the tip-off,” said Harry. “Parking’s going to be a nightmare.”

  They said their goodbyes to Maria and headed for the door. “I’ll watch for you on TV,” said Maria. “Call me on your cell phone and wave.”

  As it turned out, Harry and Rachel missed the first ten minutes of the game. They got stuck in a massive traffic jam, courtesy of road closings caused by the filming of Nigel Howard’s action epic Army of Steel.

  28

  Hollywood Memories earned towers of praise among film buffs as the biggest and best movie memorabilia store in the Los Angeles area, and perhaps the world. While the building itself was relatively small, every square foot was crammed to the rafters with eye-popping collectibles covering many decades. Tourists and industry professionals alike flocked to the site to prowl the bulging shelves and overflowing boxes of lobby cards, publicity stills, one-sheets, animation cells, scripts, and books. Entire sections of the store were dedicated to classic icons such as James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, The Three Stooges, and Mickey Mouse. The walls behind the counter were covered in framed autographed portraits of TV and film celebrities, ranging from the famous to the infamous. It was not unusual to find Quentin Tarantino or Martin Scorsese deep in an aisle, immersed in motion picture artifacts.

  The store’s owner, Victor Grady, was widely regarded as the king of motion picture trivia. Anyone conducting in-depth film or TV research inevitably turned to Victor and picked his encyclopedic brain. He could rattle off the cast of unaired pilots, recite complete filmographies, identify old movies from the vaguest plot summary, and unearth fascinating factoids on bit-role performers. He had even revealed the early porn film appearances of a couple of well-known stars.

  The Los Angeles Star, in a lengthy article about the store, gushed, “Victor Grady has probably not only heard of that obscure movie that you remember and nobody else has seen, he can also show you the poster, the lobby card set, early drafts of the screenplay, and perhaps an original prop from the filming.”

  The article quoted Victor stating, “Ninety-six percent of my brain’s capacity is filled with movie trivia. Just don’t ask me how to change the oil in my car.”

  Walter Wiggins often visited Victor to collect information on subjects he was researching. Victor never failed him, and Wiggins rewarded him with movie premiere tickets and piles of promotional materials he accumulated from the studios.

  This evening, Wiggins had a new challenge for him. He hoped Victor wouldn’t d
isappoint.

  “Sandra Ross!” thundered Wiggins as he entered the store. Heads turned.

  From behind the counter, half hidden by dangling T-shirts, Victor took up the challenge and responded, “Deadly Desires. New release. Sandra Ross plays the role of Helen Shaw, first victim of Michael Drake, who uses human sacrifice to propel his political career. Excellent film. Raw, like a documentary. Best of its kind since Blair Witch Project.”

  Wiggins made his way over to Victor, knocking into a cardboard standup of Sylvester Stallone and nearly upsetting a display of Wizard of Oz collectible plates. The aisles were too damn narrow for a full-figured man like himself.

  “Okay,” said Wiggins. “You passed the first test. Now tell me —what else has she done? And where can I find her? I’m looking for any background you can come up with.” “Did you try the Screen Actors Guild?”

  “They were no help. That’s why I’m turning to the expert.”

  “I would imagine you’ve Googled her and tried IMDB?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Victor lowered his eyes and concentrated. He was a graying man in his fifties, long gray sideburns, with narrow glasses perched on the end of his nose. He was permanently hunched —no doubt from ducking beneath all the movie memorabilia that crowded his every step. His shirt glistened with buttons of movie icons. He rattled when he walked.

  “Sandra Ross...” mumbled Victor, still thinking hard. You could nearly hear the gears grinding away.

  Finally, he looked back at Wiggins and said, “Crap.”

  “Don’t tell me I’ve stumped the master,” said Wiggins.

  “Hold on a second.” Victor retreated to an area of file cabinets lining the wall behind him. He scoured the labels on the drawers. “Let’s see...”

  While he conducted his search, another customer entered the store. Wiggins turned and glanced at him. He was a pasty, greasy young man in his twenties with rings under his eyes, a goatee, and long black hair tied in a ponytail.

  Wiggins turned away. Sometimes when people recognized him they wanted to argue about one of his recent reviews. It was either “How could you recommend that movie?” or “How could you not like this movie?”

  It was always tiresome. He couldn’t help it if the public taste was inferior to his own.

  The greasy young man busied himself looking at some Betty Boop mugs.

  Victor returned to Wiggins with the press kit for Deadly Desires. “There might be some bios in here,” he said, placing it on the counter.

  Wiggins flipped open the folder. He frowned. “I’ve already seen this. It wasn’t much help.” The production notes were skimpy, the bios were sketchy, and the press release said nothing. The enclosed CD-ROM offered little more than a series of digital photos created from film frames.

  “I’ve got some horror film magazines from the past few months —you know, Fangoria, Shock Cinema, that kind of thing —I’ll bet there’s an article in one of those. They cover the independents. Don’t give up on me yet. I’ll be right back.”

  Victor left the counter to go scour an aisle of film periodicals. As Victor left the counter, another clerk stepped forward, a chipper middle-aged man wearing a Groucho Marx T-shirt. “Can I help anyone?”

  Wiggins shook his head no.

  “Yes, please,” said the pasty young man with the ponytail. He leaned against the counter next to Wiggins and pointed at something high on a shelf behind the clerk. “How much for the Oscar?”

  The clerk had to climb on a stepstool to retrieve the statuette. He brought it to the customer to inspect.

  “You don’t see many of these for sale,” said the clerk. “Anybody who received an Oscar after 1950 had to sign an agreement that they wouldn’t sell it. And the Academy’s been trying to buy back any pre-1950 Oscars that are on the market. This one here belonged to a film editor, Ronald Kelp, 1946. It’s in excellent condition, one of a kind.”

  The customer lifted the statuette off the counter. “Heavy.”

  “Weighs nearly ten pounds.”

  “How much are you asking?”

  “Thirteen hundred dollars.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  The clerk appeared surprised by the immediate response. “Well...then...great. It’s yours.” He chuckled. “You can take it home and give yourself an acceptance speech.”

  “Funny,” said the customer, not smiling. He looked over at Wiggins. Wiggins looked away before their eyes could connect.

  Why on earth would somebody pay all that money for something they didn’t earn?

  Victor showed up a minute later, palms out to Wiggins, apologetic. “Nothing. Darn it, Walter, I couldn’t find anything on her. You win, you stumped the master. I feel like you should get a prize. Do you want a gift certificate?”

  “No,” said Wiggins. Wiggins turned on his heels and headed for the exit, moving carefully through the obstacle course of memorabilia. “I’ll keep looking,” Victor cried out after him. “Something’s bound to turn up.” “You’ve told me everything I need to know,” said Wiggins. He opened the door and left the store.

  The night air was heavy and still. Wiggins moved across the dark parking lot toward his car. His wheezing became amplified in the silence. His stout body heaved with every step. His mind reeled: a new actress in a hit film, and there’s no information on her whatsoever. It only helped to seal his suspicions. Harry Tuttle had done something to her, for real.

  As Wiggins approached his car, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. The key chain featured Scooby Doo —an old promotional freebie from one of the studios. Before he could open the car door, he heard a voice behind him.

  “Mr. Wiggins?”

  Walter stopped, surprised, because he hadn’t heard anyone coming. He turned and opened his mouth to reply. He didn’t have enough time to utter a word.

  The pony-tailed customer from inside the store rushed forward, holding up the Academy Award by its head.

  The base of the statuette crashed into the side of the critic’s skull, just above his left ear. He saw an explosion of stars. He let out a large, involuntary groan.

  The base struck him in the head again, then a third time, and a fourth, wielded like a fierce hammer. Every blow brought a new eruption of blinding pain. Wiggins toppled off balance and struggled to remain standing. The next blow, the most brutal one yet, sent a network of searing cracks through the back of his head. Wiggins cried out, short yelps of pain and fear. The attacker’s reply came in a crisp, flat monotone, “It’s thumbs down for you, fat boy.”

  Wiggins collapsed hard. The sky became replaced by pavement, and then the blood in his eyes wiped everything away.

  29

  Harry’s ears filled with screams. The Los Angeles Lakers had just sunk the game-leading shot with 2.4 seconds remaining, after chipping away for a good 15 minutes to close the gap with the San Antonio Spurs. The collective mass erupted in a frenzy. No one remained seated. Men danced. Women roared. High-energy music thundered on the P.A.

  Harry could not feel more detached from it all. He joined the celebration mechanically, pumped his fist in the air a few times, whooped without passion, and clapped limply. Rachel, who could not name more than two L.A. players before the game, now cheered like a hardcore fan who had just witnessed the clinching of the NBA Championship.

  The crowd continued to hum after the final buzzer. Following a ceremony of high fives, the Lakers disappeared into the locker room. Harry and Rachel wound their way in small footsteps toward an exit. Bursts of joy and laughter echoed throughout the cavernous corridors.

  “What a game, I’m still shaking,” said Rachel, throwing an arm around Harry and pulling him close. “Ooh, so are you.”

  They found his Audi in the crowded outdoor lot and climbed in. Harry joined a long line of red brake lights going nowhere. She thanked him for the game and great seats.

  “No problem,” murmured Harry.

  She stared at him for a moment as car lights projected odd patterns o
f illumination and shadow across his face.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been so quiet.”

  “I guess I’m a little distracted. You know, work has been crazy.”

  “Well, let me distract you from your distraction.” As Harry’s car idled, she leaned over and gave him a long, soft kiss.

  Several inebriated fans walking past the car caught sight of the action and cheered.

  Rachel pulled back gently and looked into Harry’s eyes.

  Harry smirked. “She shoots. She scores.”

  “So where’s the postgame show?”

  “We can go to my place. I like having home court advantage.”

  “Sure, coach. And feel free to send me to the showers.”

  He smiled in response, successfully aroused and distracted from his beguilement. A minivan behind them blasted its horn, and Harry realized the line had started moving. He tossed the Audi into drive.

  The front door to Harry’s home creaked open and no one entered. The darkened figures of Harry and Rachel remained in the doorway, leaned into one another, kissing. Fumbling to gain entry without disrupting the continuity, Harry’s free hand reached in and waved for the light switch.

  Rachel grabbed his arm and pulled it down.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “You like the dark?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I love the dark.”

  They entered the house and shut the door. They knocked into an umbrella stand, backed into a wall, and continued kissing. Harry lost himself in the moment — and found a depth of passion he had not experienced since the early days of his marriage to Julie. The passion swept everything else out of his brain —the fear and the chaos, the future and the past.

  He released words between kisses, “Want to —go—up?”

  “Mm hmm...”

  Despite the mutual agenda, it took them five minutes to disengage and start up the stairs. Harry knew where the night was headed and his thoughts swam in fragments, Do I have condoms...I hope I made the bed...