The only entertaining thing that happens is that Kari Sothern reports that future installments of Escape to Earth will feature mutant sea creatures and a dirty bomb in Buenos Aires. It’s the only amusing thing that’s happened to me in ages.
The night before Nataliya’s funeral I attend the premiere of Part III of Escape to Earth at Universal CityWalk, a kind of high-concept shopping mall run by Universal Studios. The place is so ablaze with light and outrageous architecture and psychedelic artwork that it looks like the whole Sunset Strip of the last fifty years packed into a quarter-mile pedestrian mall. Since the place is very public, with shops, restaurants, and nightclubs, and since our various stalkers and killers could be anywhere amid the customers, serious thought was given to moving the premiere somewhere else. In the end we were encouraged not to wander through the area but to go only to a club called Joli Blon, where the hoi polloi, their SUVs, and their guns can be firmly turned away by our guards.
It’s a far more traditional premiere, with plush ropes and a red carpet and fans kept at arm’s length. My guards hustle me down the red carpet so fast that I don’t think I achieve eye contact with a single one of the fans. It’s depressing.
This leads to a morose scene where I’m in a plush leather booth at the Joli Blon with Jane Haskill, the composer, and Allison King, the film editor. I’m drinking ginger ale, and Allison and Jane are sharing a pitcher of frozen margaritas.
Jane wears a black sleeveless Boss satin dress that looks quite fetching on someone more accustomed to jeans and tatty cardigans. Allison is short and plump, with straw-colored hair cut in bangs across her forehead. She’s wearing a deeply elegant gown stitched all over with silvery metal scales, and it deserves a better setting than a New Orleans–themed club that looks like a cross between a Bourbon Street dive and the Haunted Mansion from Disneyland.
We’ve all just watched Part III. In another of Dagmar’s nifty ideas, the people who got D.C. last time will get Peru in Part IV, and those who got Peru will get D.C.—but it won’t be the same Peru or D.C., there will be large variation built into the stories—and, to make it obvious, and so that the viewers won’t get bored, all this was made clear in a few brief previews tacked on to the end of Part III. No matter the alternatives, both Part IV stories will lead to the same place, Roheen on a ship heading for Cape Town. So once again, viewers will be encouraged to look at the videos through one another’s handhelds, laptops, or tablets.
The audience in the Joli Blon seem surprised by this, and intensely interested. They’re all chattering away.
At the table I share with Jane and Allison, the success of the episode doesn’t seem to cheer us up.
Jane looks at her half-empty margarita, then looks at the pitcher, trying to decide whether or not to top up her drink. She decides against it.
“Sean,” she says, “when you told me Jaydee’s death wasn’t an accident, I didn’t quite believe you.”
“Someone had already tried to run me down twice,” I say. “Let’s just say I was alert to the possibilities of foul play.”
“Everyone who died was at Joey’s party six years ago,” Allison says. Somehow it’s even more depressing when someone else says it. “That’s where it all started.”
“Everyone died the same way Timmi did,” Jane mutters. “Hit by a car.”
“Mac wasn’t hit by a car,” I point out.
“He went off a cliff,” Jane says. “So did Timmi.”
I feel a chill run up my spine. I hadn’t considered that.
Jane looks at Allison. “So is it a serial killer?”
“Well, duh.” Allison rolls her eyes. She stirs her margarita with a plastic straw. The straw has this weird little plastic heart on the top that you can compress to actually do most of the sucking for you. The heart fills up like a little reservoir, and then it requires only a small effort to slurp it up from there.
“Timmi was the first victim,” she says. “The first victim is always the most important one. That’s where the killer is most, like, unguarded. Because he isn’t hardened and he can make a lot of mistakes.”
I decide to steer the conversation away from Timmi’s death. “The police investigated that one,” I say. “They didn’t find anything.”
“They didn’t find anything because they can’t see the pattern that we see,” Allison says.
“And what pattern is that?” It’s Jane who asks the question, because I can’t bring myself to speak it aloud.
“It’s all about the affair that Timmi and Mac were having,” Allison says. “That’s where things started going wrong.”
Relief floods my mind—hey, suspicion doesn’t fall on me!—but the relief is soon overwhelmed by blank astonishment.
“Mac and Timmi?” I say. “Mac MacCartney and Timmi were—”
Allison raises her margarita and looks at me over the rim of her glass. “You didn’t know?” she says.
I just gape at her, feeling so far beyond stupid that I couldn’t find stupid with a ten-meter stupid-dowsing stick.
“No one told me,” I say, feeling very alone and forlorn.
Allison takes a long drink of her margarita, then reaches for the pitcher. “That’s what the fight was about,” she says. “Timmi was trying to break up with Mac, but he didn’t want that.”
“Did Joey know?” I ask.
Allison gives a laugh. “No. He’s such an egotist, you know, I’m sure it never occurred to him that a woman would cheat on him. He never guessed till I told him.”
Jane gives her a disgusted look and refills her glass. “I can’t believe you did that.”
Again I’m staring at Allison with my mouth wide open, only this time I’m not bewildered but appalled. “You told him?” I say. “Why in hell?”
“Because I was fed up,” Allison says. Her mouth tightens into a grim line. “We were working ourselves to death editing Golden Fighter—we were spending eighteen-hour days stuck in the editing room—and each new edit was worse than the last. Joey had no judgment left; he was half in the bag most of the time—he was a complete wreck. He wouldn’t listen to me, he just kept moaning that he needed Timmi there to tell him what to do. He kept going on about how perfect she was, how her judgment was so flawless, how she never let him down…” She raises her hands in exasperation. “It went on for weeks. If I didn’t get Joey to stop adoring a corpse and get on with the work, I’d never have escaped that hell. What the Christ was I supposed to do?”
“You weren’t supposed to tell him that,” Jane says, flat anger in her voice. “You absolutely weren’t justified in that.” I can tell they’ve had this argument before.
“It may not have been justified, but it worked,” Allison said. “We got Golden Fighter edited and out into the theaters. And bad as it was, that piece of shit could have been a lot worse.”
My mind is spinning like a flywheel out of control. It’s going to come clanging off its bearings any second. Allison picks up the pitcher and slops more margarita into her glass. I grab the glass out of her hand and pour the drink down my throat, lime juice stinging my tongue, tequila and ice alternately burning and freezing my throat. I gasp for breath and drop the empty glass to the tabletop.
“That’s falling off the wagon with a great big thud,” Jane observes. She sounds approving.
I look around the room and see Dagmar and Richard the Assassin on a second-floor balcony, half-hidden by a French Quarter–style wrought-iron balustrade.
“Excuse me,” I say, stand up, and lurch for the stair. The bite of the frozen margarita seems to have stabilized my mental process in some brutal way. I feel ideas slotting into place in my head, dropping from the sky into a perfect pattern like geometrical forms in Tetris.
I remember when Golden Fighter came out: I’d just finished shooting Mister Baby Head and I’d been doing some looping in postproduction and went from there to the premiere. Golden Fighter, the first of Joey’s big flops. I remember sweating at the party afterward, knowing I’d have to l
ie, as I waited in line to tell Joey how great the picture was.
Which means that Mac was still alive when Joey was told of Mac’s involvement with Timmi.
I climb up to the balcony, where I find Dagmar and Richard sharing a table. Dagmar wears a natty Panama hat over a velvety Empire-waist maternity dress, and she’s talking on her phone. Richard, dressed in his customary black, nurses a glass of beer and listens amiably to Dagmar’s half of the conversation. I put a hand on Richard’s shoulder, and he looks up in surprise.
“Can we talk for a minute?”
He nods, and I pull over an empty chair from the next table and join them.
“Listen,” I say. “I just found something out.”
“Okay.” Richard gives me the full Zen gaze. As always, having his complete attention is a little unnerving.
“Everyone who’s got killed,” I say, “attended a party at Joey’s place six years ago.”
I explain about Timmi’s affair with Mac, and how she’d been trying to break it off when she got killed. Then Mac’s death a few years later, after Allison told Joey about the affair. And how all the deaths after the first seemed to be imitations of Timmi’s death in Parmenter Canyon.
While I’m in the middle of all this, Dagmar finishes her conversation and listens.
Richard follows this without comment, then nods.
“So you’re saying it’s the same killer,” he says.
“He’s saying it’s Joey,” Dagmar says.
I nod. “Timmi’s death was an accident, okay, but now Joey’s hunting down and killing anyone he thinks might be responsible.” I wave a hand. Tequila sizzles in my skull. “And another thing—Joey needs this production to get him back on his feet. He can’t afford to disrupt the proceedings because that might mean the end of his career. Have you noticed that the murders here have been of people after they stopped being useful to the production? Jaydee’s work was basically finished when she died. Nataliya had her three days on the set and was done. Joey didn’t need her any longer, and he disposed of her.
“You know,” I go on, “I wondered why Joey insisted we go on location in Parmenter Canyon. Because every day we had to drive past the place where Timmi was killed—it’s as if he needed to psych himself up for something, remind himself why he was there.”
“And of course he humiliated himself to get his job back,” Dagmar says. “He went that extra mile to get access to you all.”
“I’ve checked Joey’s alibi,” Richard says. “In fact I’ve checked everybody’s alibi.”
“At least,” I say, “you didn’t have to check mine.”
He gives me an amused look. “What makes you think that?”
“Because I’m trapped at the hotel without wheels. I need to call one of your men to go anywhere.”
“But you can drive,” Richard says. “You might have sneaked out of the NoHo and rented a car.”
I’m beginning to get angry. “So you’re saying I have no alibi for Nataliya’s death?”
“Well, you don’t.” His voice is matter-of-fact. “But you lack motive. For that matter, so does Joey.”
Right, I think. Get back to the alibis. “So where was Joey that night Nataliya was killed?”
“Joey was working with Allison till after eight. He was on the phone with Dagmar about nine, and that’s right when Nataliya got run down. He’d have to be a pretty cool customer to phone someone just as he was about to commit a murder. Or just after, as he was driving away.”
“Can you find out where the call originated?”
There’s a little shift in his eyes. “I’ll do that. Another thing, by the way—Joey doesn’t own a white SUV. Or a black one.”
“How do you know? Joey owns so many cars he’s got half of them in a warehouse.”
“There are websites where you can look up car registrations. He doesn’t have an SUV registered in California.”
“That—” I hesitate. “That probably doesn’t matter so much.”
Richard waves a hand. “Yeah, he’s got resources. He can get a clean car if he wants one. I’ll check the phone call, though.”
Dagmar leans close to me, the brim of the Panama touching my temple.
“Another thing,” she says. “Don’t you think it’s a little suspicious that your father contacted you only after you announced that you were leaving your money to the old actors’ home? It’s like he realized he wouldn’t get any money from your death, so now he’s trying to talk it out of you.”
Again I feel a certain reflex to defend my father, but I resolutely suppress it.
“Also.” Dagmar touches my arm. “The success of Escape to Earth has inspired the New Kidz Network to put Family Tree in rotation. All seven seasons. So that should mean a nice chunk of change for you.”
I look at Dagmar. “Do you think my father knows?”
She shrugs. “I think he called you for a reason.”
I consider the bleakness of a world in which family exists only as a parasite, latching on only to drain you of your blood, sanity, and cash. Then I realize that I’ve lived in that world for a very long time.
“I do have some good news,” Richard says. “The gamers have probably tracked down Trishula.”
“The gamers?” I’m deeply puzzled. “The ones playing your games online?”
Dagmar gives a little smile. “They do these things sometimes,” she says. “It’s a kind of hobby.”
Richard explains that Trishula seems to be a Babaji follower who lives in an ashram in Covina, and whose birth name was Rick Hawkins.
I’m surprised. “Babaji has an ashram in Covina?”
“Why wouldn’t Covina have an ashram?” Richard smiles. “‘One mile square and all there,’” he says, quoting the slogan of the City of Covina.
I try to get the conversation back on track—which, since tequila is starting to really slosh around in my brain, is harder than you might imagine.
“So you think Trishula is Debashish, who is actually this Rick person?”
“The gamers have tried to contact him, but apparently he’s not one of those authorized to talk to outsiders. Their emails go unanswered, and phone calls have been handled by a woman called Praveena. So a number of them actually went to the ashram, but they weren’t allowed inside.”
Richard sips his beer. “I went myself. Praveena said that Debashish no longer lives there, and that she didn’t know where he’d gone. When I pointed out that it said on their own web page that he lived there, Praveena said that the web page was out of date, because they didn’t have a web person at the moment.”
“So do you think he’s still there?”
“I’m trying to find out. I’m trying to watch their traffic, to see if Trishula is posting from there. We also know what Rick Hawkins looks like, so we’ve got our security staking the place out in case he’s still there and tries to leave. They’re listening in with parabolic mics and such, but all they’re hearing is a lot of silent meditation, plus arguments in the kitchen about who’s being the stricter vegetarian. Apparently they’re very competitive about it.” He gives a little flip of one hand. “We’ll see what we see.”
My flurry of deduction is over, and it’s left me more depressed than ever. “Right,” I say. “Thanks anyway.”
He returns to his beer. I walk out onto the balcony and look down at the club. Jean-Marc is prowling the buffet and stacking his plate high. I see Jane and Allison calling for a second pitcher of margaritas, and I try to remember whether either of them left Joey’s party before Timmi. I decide I should warn them to leave town as soon as their usefulness to the production ends.
Then I see Joey. He’s dressed immaculately in a three-piece white linen summer suit, and he’s giving an interview to a television journalist. His eyes are hidden by shades even indoors, and his expression looks carved from stone.
Spot the hit man in this picture, I think.
I realize my own usefulness to the production is about to end. I’ve got one more d
ay of shooting and then some looping, and that’s it.
Maybe, I think, I should buy tickets for someplace safe.
Greenland seems good.
But Greenland seems very far away. I turn, shoulder my way through the crowd around the upstairs bar, and order myself a double scotch.
EXT. UNIVERSAL CITYWALK—NIGHT
I leave the party an hour later. I’ve had a number of drinks, but I can walk just fine. I’ve got Simon and Wild Bill with me, hustling me back down the red carpet, and Astin is waiting in the vehicle to speed us off to safety.
CityWalk is all around me in blazing neon pastel color. A life-size King Kong clings to the side of a building. Fans wave and cheer. Some are holding out pens and autograph books. It occurs to me that some of the fans are female and beautiful.
It’s just like my glory days. I realize that I don’t have to go home with just my bodyguards. And if I pick a fan at random it minimizes the possibility that she is a Ramona, and in any case Simon and his friends can search her for microphones.
So I stop and take an autograph book and smile, and the young green-eyed lady smiles back. Simon tries to move me on, but I resist. I sign a picture and another autograph book and I realize that I don’t have to invite just one woman back to my suite. I can have a party, just me and my fans.
Then someone yells “Gun!” and I hear screams.
I turn and see a pale-skinned undernourished man in worn jeans and a checked shirt rushing at me. He’s already ducked under the velvet ropes and there’s a big kitchen knife in his fist and he’s seven or eight feet away and coming fast. I know Simon is behind me and I don’t know where my other guard is, but I can’t see him, so he’s out of position.
I react. I give the man a front kick to the midsection. The impact rattles my teeth. My attacker folds like a bedsheet blown away in the wind.
Then I’m staring, transfixed by my own success, as Simon and Wild Bill pile on my attacker and wrench the knife away.
The Fourth Wall Page 28