by Stuart Woods
“She could help you figure out how to handle it, that’s what.”
Chris stood up and glanced at her hair in the mirror. “Enough of this; I’ve got to meet the security system guy at the new house in half an hour, and with traffic, I’ll be lucky to make it.”
“Boy, is that guy going to do a job on you today,” Danny said. “You’ll buy the biggest alarm system in the world; you won’t be able to get into your own house.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said, grabbing his hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.” She led him out of the house to the little red Miata parked in her drive, then kissed him on the cheek. “Dinner this weekend?”
“I’ve got a hot new fella to see on Saturday,” he said. “How about Sunday?”
“You’re on. I’ll take you out to Malibu and show you how the house is coming, then we’ll have dinner at La Scala. Meet me here at seven?”
“Sounds good. You think you’re going to feel any safer when you move to Malibu?”
“See you Sunday,” she called over her shoulder. She got into the Mercedes and headed for the freeway.
She drove fast, her new hairdo blowing in the wind. She didn’t care about that; she had great hair, and it would brush out. What was the point of having a convertible if you couldn’t let your hair blow in the wind?
At twenty-two Chris had headed for New York, straight out of the University of Georgia, a B.A. with a double major in dance and drama tucked in her trunk. She got her first job a week later, in an off-Broadway musical, and she had hardly ever been out of work since. Sometimes the work had paid little or nothing, but she had never had to wait tables or do commercials to support her acting habit. She took classes at the Actors Studio, she took any part she could get in anything good, and turned down anything she’d be ashamed to have on her resume. During those years she turned down a lot that other actresses would have grabbed at—horror films, TV movies, a biggish part in a series, even. She had done two supporting roles in features before she’d even thought of leaving New York, and when she’d finally made the move to L.A., she’d had two offers in her pocket, a top agent, a business manager, and her moving expenses paid by Centurion Pictures.
There had been a two-year marriage to an actor, Brad Donner, and together they had scraped up a down payment on the Bel Air house. When the marriage failed, he did the gentlemanly thing and moved out, but she was uncomfortable living in the house, and she looked forward to selling it when her own house was finished, and splitting what should be a considerable profit with Brad.
Chris was not a bankable movie star—not yet, anyway; but she’d played featured parts in films with Gene Hackman, Dustin Hoffman, and Alec Baldwin, and two leads opposite slightly lesser stars. All she needed, she and her management felt, was one hot starring role in a film that she could carry herself—something like what Sally Field had found in Norma Rae. That one great part was her goal.
Not that she wasn’t making a good living. Her price was half a million now, and a hot starring role would push it over the million mark. She was thirty-one—too old to be the kind of phenomenon Julia Roberts was, but she had a solid track record, and she was consistently considered for some of the best work in town.
As she left the Santa Monica Freeway and joined the Pacific Coast Highway, she reflected on her good fortune with this new house. It was at Big Rock, not necessarily the most fashionable part of Malibu, but the beach was great and the lot was good. An earlier house, damaged by mudslides and big waves, had finally burned down, and she had gotten the lot for a bargain price from a disgusted owner. Working with a good architect, she had built foundations that would withstand anything, even the violent vagaries of the Southern California climate. Let the Big One come, she thought; her new house would still be standing.
As she approached Big Rock she could see the framing timbers of the roof above the construction fence. When the house was near completion, she would build a wall that would separate her from the Pacific Coast Highway traffic and from adoring nuts like her new letter writer.
As she parked, a van pulled up behind her, and a young man got out. “Miss Callaway,” he said, “I’m Mel Parker—Keyhole Security.”
“How do you do, Mel?” She shook his hand. He was nice-looking, she thought—blond, wiry, and athletic-looking. He had a scarred upper lip and hooded eyes, but the effect was not unattractive.
“I’m a real big fan of yours,” Mel said. “I’ve seen everything you’ve done, and I can’t wait for the next one.”
“Thank you, Mel; I appreciate that.”
He blushed. “Shall we take a walk around your place and see what you need in the way of a security system?”
“Sure.”
He opened the plywood gate for her and they could see the house. That was how she thought of it now. At first, it had just been a burned-out wreck, then a hole in the ground, then a lot of steel and concrete. But now the house was framed, and she could see the shape that she had dreamed about, walk through the rooms and feel their size, pick her way among the timbers out onto what would be the deck and gaze at the blue Pacific. Just entering the gap where the front door would be gave her a thrill.
As she and Mel entered, another young man, a stranger, approached. He was wearing work clothes and carrying a clipboard. He stuck out his hand.
“Chris, I’m Bud Carson; I’m your framing contractor.”
“Hi,” she said, not put off by the use of her first name. The whole world seemed to have that privilege these days. Her general contractor, Mike Moscowitz, had introduced her to most of the subcontractors, but not to this one, who looked awfully young to be the boss of the framers. He also had an odd cast in his eyes that made it difficult to tell where he was looking when he spoke.
“How do you like the way the place is shaping up?” he asked.
“I’m thrilled. It’s beginning to look the way I’ve imagined it would.”
“Framing’s the best part,” Bud said. “That’s when a project starts to be a house, and it happens fast. We’ll have the house clad in another ten days, and the roof on a week after that.”
“Great. You keep up the good work, hear? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to talk with this gentleman about the alarm system.”
“By the way,” Carson said, “I don’t have any paper with me right now, but some other time when you’re out here, do you think you could give me your autograph?”
“Sure, Bud, I’d be glad to.” She turned to go.
“And can I get somebody to take your picture with me?”
This was the part of her life that drove her nuts; people seemed to think they had some sort of claim on her, just because they’d seen her in the movies. She tried to keep her voice pleasant. “If I have time. Now you’re going to have to excuse me.” She turned and walked away.
“Chris…” he called after her.
She ignored him and kept going. She spent an hour walking around the house with Mel, pointing out windows, deciding whether to have window or screen alarms, placing the keypads that would allow her to enter an entry code or push the panic button.
“How about video?” Mel asked when they were back at the front door.
“Video?”
“I can put a camera over there that will let you look at anybody who rings the bell from any TV set in the house. Then you can decide whether to open the door or talk to the caller on an intercom.”
“That sounds good,” she said, thinking about the two letters she had received that day.
“I think it’s essential for a person in your position,” Mel said. “I’m sure you get the odd unwelcome caller.”
“Odd is the right word,” she said. “Install the camera. What about one on the deck facing the ocean, too?”
“Good idea.” He made some notes on the floor plan. “Listen,” he said, “I want you to know that I’m going to give you the best possible security service. I’ve only had my own company for a year, but we’re doing really well.”
>
“You come well recommended,” Chris said.
“I know it’s a little strange for someone you don’t really know to have your unlisted phone number and the keys to your house, but I want you to know that your privacy and security are my stock-in-trade, and that you can trust me and my people.”
“Thank you, Mel, that’s very reassuring.”
“Anything at all happens, you hit any two buttons on the keypad, and we’ll have a call in to the police within ten seconds. Response time out here is two minutes or less, usually. Of course, depending on what’s happening in Malibu, it could take longer.”
“Mel, I’m very protective of my privacy, and I don’t want anybody in your firm to have my street address or phone number, unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“I understand your concern,” he replied, “but at any one moment, there are three operators sitting staring at computer screens at my office in Santa Monica. When an alarm goes off, if it’s not a panic, the operator will immediately call your phone number. If there’s no answer, he’ll call the police; if you answer, he’ll expect you to give him a verbal code, which you will select. If you don’t give the code, or if you give the wrong code, he’ll assume you’re under duress, and he’ll call the police.”
“That sounds all right.”
“My point is, all the operators on all the shifts will have your address and phone number right there in the computer. You should know, however, that I thoroughly investigate the background of every person I hire, and I don’t take anybody with a criminal record or any kind of questionable past. Some of my people are former cops, and they know what to do in an emergency.”
“Well,” she sighed, “I guess I can’t go through life without somebody knowing where to find me.”
“That’s right, but at least you can exercise some control over who knows.”
I wish that were true, she thought to herself.
When she got back to the house there was another letter in her mailbox. That made three in one day.
“I can’t seem to stop thinking about you,” the last line read.
CHAPTER
3
On Friday morning, Chris attended the first reading of the final script of her new film, Forsaken, her first western. This was not the hot role she was looking for, but she was playing opposite Jason Quinn, a rising young actor, and the word was that this movie would make him a big star. Once again, she was riding on somebody else’s coattails, but, although Quinn’s role would dominate the film, she had four very good scenes, including her fight.
The cast had been studying a draft of the screenplay, and this was the first time any of them would see the final. Everyone was keyed up, but as they settled around a long table, set up on an empty soundstage, and began to read their parts, it was clear to everybody that what they were reading was a big improvement on what had come before. Chris was delighted to find that her part had been expanded, and she had a new scene with Quinn that was better than anything she had bargained for.
When they finished at lunchtime, Jason Quinn and the director, Brent Williams, took her aside, which made her nervous. Like any actor, Chris could be rattled by criticism, and she knew that if these two men didn’t like what she was doing, she could be replaced on short notice.
“Chris,” Brent began, “I want to tell you that this was the best first reading of a script that I have ever attended, and Jason and I think you are going to be brilliant in this film.”
Quinn spoke up. “I can’t think of any other actress who could do what you are doing with this part,” he said. “And Graham Hong tells me that you are really going to look good wiping the floor with the bad guy.”
“Well, thank you, Jason, Brent,” Chris said, trying not to sound flustered at this unexpected praise. “I’m really looking forward to shooting.”
“I know this is supposed to be the final screenplay,” Brent said, “but there was a scene we cut out early on because we didn’t think any actress could bring it off, and now Jason and I want to put it back in. Chris, I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that this is Academy Award material. The studio is very excited about this film; they loved your test for the part, and they’re going to pump up the opening from eight hundred to twelve hundred screens—if they like the finished product.”
“And they’re going to love the finished product,” Jason said, displaying a large amount of Beverly Hills dental work. “I think you and I are really going to work up some chemistry on this one.”
Chris thanked them again, and Jason went back to his dressing room, leaving her alone with the director.
“I’ve talked to Jason about this,” Brent said, “and I’m going to bump up your billing. You’ll be above the title, single card, right after Jason.”
“That’s wonderful, Brent,” Chris said, and she meant it. She had learned from experience not to get too excited about promises in Hollywood, but this time she couldn’t help herself; her heart was thumping with joy.
“The changes in the script have made your role a real costarring one. Jason and I felt it was the least we could do.” He gave her a hug and went off toward the studio commissary.
“Well,” Chris said aloud to herself, “you could have given me costarring money.” She had started back to her dressing room when she realized that no letters from Admirer had arrived today. She went off to her lunch date with a happy heart.
It was one of those brilliant L.A. days after a rain, when the smog had been swept away by a cold front and the sun lived up to its California promise. She met her agent, Ron Morrow, and her business manager, Jack Berman, at the Bistro Garden in Beverly Hills, and they lunched al fresco.
“I had a call from Brent,” Ron said. “He told me the news; I think this is very good for you, Chris.” Ron was not yet thirty-five, but he was the hottest young agent at CAA, Creative Artists Agency, the most powerful in town.
“Do you think you could pry more money out of them, Ron?”
Ron shook his head. “It would be a mistake to ask,” he said. “If this picture does what I think it’s going to do, we’ll more than make it up on the next one. You’ll have your pick of scripts, you wait and see.”
“Ron is right,” Jack said. “Let’s not crowd the studio on this one. They’re happy, and we want to keep them that way.” Jack was in his mid-fifties, a veteran of the Hollywood game and business manager to a dozen big stars.
“If you guys say so. What are we getting in the way of offers?”
“Nothing good enough,” Ron said. “But when this picture starts screening around town, they’ll be flying in over the transom. Don’t worry about it.”
“I won’t worry about a thing,” Chris said, smiling.
“How’s the house coming?” Jack asked.
“Beautifully. It’s mostly framed, so I can see the shape of things. You’ll both have to come out and see it.”
“I drive past it every night on the way home,” Ron said. “I can see the roof sticking up now.”
Jack cleared his throat. “Chris, it’s time you put the Bel Air house on the market.”
“Not yet, Jack; we’re another five months away from completion on the Malibu house—if we stay on schedule—and I don’t want an endless procession of gawkers traipsing through the house while I’m living there.”
“Five months is not too soon, believe me.”
“Tell you what; we’ve got six weeks of interiors to shoot before we move to Monument Valley for the location work. When we leave town, you can put it on the market, okay?”
“Okay,” Jack said resignedly, “but I worry about it. You’ve insisted on paying cash for the new house, you won’t let me get you a mortgage, and money is going to be tight for you.”
“Jack, I don’t spend much money when I’m shooting. There’s just the mortgage payments on the Bel Air house, and my regular monthly nut…”
“Which is pretty big, sweetheart.”
“Jack,” Ron interjected. “Don’t wor
ry about it. When Forsaken is in the can, Chris’s price is going to skyrocket. She’ll be fine.”
“I just don’t like to see her cashing in her savings to build this place when I could get her a variable-rate mortgage right now at a terrific rate.”
“Call me crazy,” Chris said, “but I’m tired of debt.”
Jack held up a hand. “We’ll say no more about it.”
They finished lunch in a haze of wine and camaraderie.
When Chris got home there were six dozen red roses waiting on her doorstep. They’re from Jason and Brent, she said to herself as she gathered them up and struggled toward the kitchen with them. As she placed them in the sink and turned on the water, she noticed the card.
“You’re wonderful,” it said. It was signed “Admirer.” She crumpled it in her hand and threw it at the trash bin.
CHAPTER
4
On Sunday night, Danny Devere showed up on time. Danny, Chris reflected, was always on time. It was reassuring to have someone in her life who was entirely predictable.
When Chris had been married to Brad Donner, most of their friends had seemed to be his, and since the divorce she had been constantly working or occupied with the house, so she hadn’t seen much of anybody. But Danny did her hair every day when she was working and twice a week when she wasn’t, so, along with Melanie, her secretary, he was a constant in her life, a fount of common sense and good judgment. She’d want him at her back in a fight, too, she thought.
Chris loved to drive, and they took her car. “What a week!” she said to Danny. “The house gets framed, and the new script turns out to be better than I thought it would be.” She told him about the first reading and what had happened afterward.
“Sweets,” Danny said, “I’m forty, and I’ve been in this town since I was twenty-two, so I know what I’m talking about: you’re headed for the big time, and nobody can stop you.”
