Dead and Not So Buried

by James L. Conway

  “He the only man you killed?”

  “No. I dropped a hand grenade into a tank, taking out the four-man crew.”

  Jerry smiled. “I remember when John Wayne did that in Sands of Iwo Jima.”

  Join the club.

  Jerry stood, walked over to Roy. “Are you wearing underwear?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Underwear. Do you have on underwear?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Boxer or brief?”

  “Boxer.”

  “Good. Would you mind taking off your clothes but leaving on your boxers?”

  “What?”

  “Roy, Ramrod spends a lot of time in the ocean. In a swimsuit. So it’s important for the actor we cast to have a great body.”

  Roy did have a great body. He spent hours every other day at the gym to keep it that way. So, feeling a little foolish, he stripped.

  Jerry circled him like a new car he was considering buying. “You’re in excellent shape.”

  The others chimed in. “Fabulous.”

  “Tip top.”

  “Great definition.”

  “Brilliant.”

  Jerry turned to Winslow. “I think Ramrod should have a tattoo.”

  “Absolutely,” the writer-producer said. “In fact, I’m surprised you don’t, Roy. I thought all SEALS had tattoos.”

  “It’s ... a religious thing.”

  “What religion bans tattoos?”

  “Jews,” the casting director said. “Funny, you don’t look Jewish.”

  Fuck. Now Roy wasn’t only lying about being a Seal, he just turned himself into a goddamn Jew. “I converted.”

  “But you don’t have a problem with Ramrod having a tattoo, do you?” Jerry asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “It wouldn’t be a real tattoo, of course, just something the makeup people would draw on and take off.”

  “Great.”

  Jerry did another circle around Roy. “Now the question becomes, where do we put it? Here ...” he said, wrapping his hand around Roy’s bicep. “Or here ...” Jerry traced his fingers across the other bicep. “Or here ...” He placed his hand on Roy’s chest. Jerry now stood face to face with Roy. Very close. Too close. “What do you think?” he asked.

  Roy desperately wanted to take a step back, put some space between himself and this network creep, but he was afraid of insulting him. He stood his ground. “I think my right bicep would be best. I’m right–handed; we’d get to see it more.”

  Jerry wrapped his hand around the bicep, squeezed it gently.

  “Good choice.”

  “Excellent.”

  “That’s what I was going to say.”

  “The left would never work.”

  “Brilliant.”

  Jerry stared deeply into Roy’s eyes. “Jerry Bruckheimer taught me that the eyes are the windows

  to the soul. And to be a TV star, you’ve got to have great windows. Well, Roy, you’ve got great windows.” Then Jerry turned to the room and announced: “And we’ve got our star!”

  “We’ve got a problem, Roy.”

  “Problem? But my agent said the deal was almost closed.”

  Winslow was in his office using the speakerphone “Jerry wants another meeting first.”

  A worried Roy leaned back on his apartment’s red plaid couch. “Why?”

  “He’s got a few concerns he wants to discuss with you.”

  “Okay ...”

  “At his house.”

  Roy’s gaydar went off. “His house? No offense, Barry, but I got some weird vibes off Jerry. You know, the way he stared at me. The way he touched me.”

  “You afraid he’s going to make a pass at you?”

  “Well, yeah, I am. Don’t get me wrong, I got nothing against gays, but Jerry’s just … creepy.

  “That’s just Jerry’s style, Roy. I think he was trying to see how you’d handle the pressure. I don’t even think he’s gay.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “No meeting, no role.”

  “Why do I have to meet him at his house?”

  “He’s twisted his ankle or something. He’s doing all his business from home this week.”

  “I don’t know ...”

  “Tell you what, Roy. I’m so sure that this is on the up and up I’ll meet you there. He certainly won’t try any funny stuff with me in the room.”

  That’s true, Roy thought. Besides, he told himself, there was no way Jerry could physically force him to do anything. Roy outweighed him by seventy-five pounds. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Great. Six-thirty tonight, 356 Sunset Plaza.”

  “You’ll be there the whole time?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “See you there.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve been less than honest with us, Roy.” Jerry sat in an overstuffed leather recliner looking at Roy, who stood at a picture window, the sensational view of the Sunset Strip wasted on his back. Winslow was busy at the bar, mixing drinks.

  Roy looked down, embarrassed. “You found out I wasn’t a SEAL.”

  Jerry’s left ankle was wrapped in gauze, and the rest of his plump body was wrapped in a royal blue Armani robe. “We were getting ready to issue a press release announcing you’d been cast as Ramrod, and leading with the delicious morsel that you’d actually been a Navy SEAL. Luckily our legal department checks every press release, and a quick call to the Defense Department revealed your little ruse.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “We know that, Roy,” Winslow said, handing him his gin and tonic. “Besides, we didn’t cast you because you were a SEAL, we cast you because you’re the perfect actor for the role.”

  “But I still looked like a complete idiot to Frank,” Jerry said, referring to the president of the network. He sipped the martini Winslow handed him, smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Perfect, Barry. Thanks.”

  Roy took a nervous gulp of his drink. “So what happens now?”

  “Now I decide whether you keep the role or we recast.”

  “But you just said I’m perfect for the role.” Roy took another nervous pull of the drink.

  “I lost face, Roy. That’s Commodity Number One in this town. A price must be paid.”

  “What kind of price?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. Maybe a renegotiation of your deal.

  Or ...”

  With a long swig Roy finished his drink. “Or ...?”

  “A personal favor.” Jerry leaned back in his recliner, his robe dropped open a bit, revealing the dark tangle of his pubic hair and the accompanying paraphernalia.

  Roy tore his eyes away from Jerry’s balls and gave Winslow a look that said, I told you so.

  Winslow forced a smile. “What say we all have another drink?” Winslow started for the bar; Roy started to go after him, to tell him he had to get out of here when he suddenly reeled, overcome with vertigo. He grabbed the back of a couch then slumped into it.

  Winslow asked, “You okay, Roy?”

  “I don’t know. Feel funny. Dizzy ...”

  “Don’t worry, Roy,” Jerry said, standing. “You’ll be fine in the morning. And the star of your own show.”

  Roy shook his head, realizing numbly that he’d been drugged. It was like being in an Oliver Stone movie, bombarded with bizarre images. The city lights buzzed like a swarm of fireflies. Winslow, his face melting like an image in a Dali painting, backed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Jerry, his face grotesquely elongated, whispered something in Roy’s ear. But Roy didn’t hear anything. Another wave of vertigo engulfed him and he passed out.

  Daylight blasted through the picture window. Roy opened his eyes, winced as the bright light burned a hole in his brain. He groaned. A sledgehammer was doing overtime on his brain. He could feel every hair on his body, and they all hurt. And he was thirsty. God almighty, his tongue felt like a giant tampon in his mouth.

  He sat up and looked around, surpris
ed. He expected to be in his own bed, but he was on a couch in someone’s living room. Naked. His clothes were piled on the floor next to him, and a Navajo rug hung about his shoulders.

  Oh, shit, he thought as a jumble of fragmented images from last night sliced through his memory like shattered glass. What the fuck had happened?

  “Oh, good, you’re up,” Winslow said, walking in with two cups of steaming coffee. “I was beginning to think you’d drunk yourself into a coma.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Jerry’s house.”

  Jerry’s house? What the fuck was he doing at Jerry’s house? Roy took the offered cup of coffee. “How’d I get here?”

  “You drove yourself, as far as I know. Don’t you remember coming over last night?”

  “No.”

  “What is the last thing you remember?”

  Roy’s memory was broken and scattered like a spilled jigsaw puzzle. “Fuck if I know. What day is it?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Wednesday ... Wednesday ... I got to the gym early, hit the weights. But kept my cell phone close in case my agent called to say our deal was closed.”

  “But he never did, because I called you and said there was a problem.”

  “I don’t remember that. There was? Is?”

  “Was. Jerry found out you weren’t a SEAL, but you two talked about it last night and now everything’s copacetic.”

  “Why am I still here, naked?”

  “We started drinking to celebrate. After about ten G&Ts, you passed out, so Jerry and I took your clothes off and put you to bed on the couch. I was too drunk to drive so I bunked in the guest room.”

  The pieces weren’t quite fitting together, but Roy was in too much agony to worry about it. “Where’s Jerry now?”

  “At the network. I’m late; it’s almost ten-thirty and I’ve got to get to the studio. Stay here at long as you want, and I’ll see you tomorrow, eleven-thirty sharp.”

  “Eleven-thirty? Where? Why?”

  “For the press conference, Roy. We’re going to introduce the world to Ramrod. Congratulations, you’re a TV star!”

  It took a few days, but Roy finally fit all the pieces together. Not that there weren’t hints. Freaky flashes of a man’s hands on his shoulders, hot breath in his ear.

  He’d been raped. Drugged and raped. Rohypnol, probably, the date rape drug. But what the hell was he supposed to do about it? He’d been announced as the star of the upcoming pilot, been to the press conference, and wallowed in the attention. He’d worked hard for this moment, and confronting

  Winslow or Jerry would only get him fired. Besides, he rationalized, he couldn’t be sure that’s what happened. So Roy kept his mouth shut.

  Three weeks later, while in Hawaii shooting the pilot, Roy got drunk at the wrap party at the Honolulu Hilton and pulled Winslow aside. “You drugged me, didn’t you?”

  “What’re you talking about? This is the first time I’ve seen you all night.”

  “Not tonight. At Jerry’s. My blackout. You drugged me.”

  “That’s crazy, Roy.”

  “What’d he do, threaten to pull the plug on the pilot unless you cooperated?”

  “You’re drunk, Roy. Look, you did a great job on the pilot, you deserve to let it out a little, but—”

  “He raped me, and you helped him! Hey, for all I know, you took a poke at me, too.”

  “I’m not gay.”

  “But he is, isn’t he?”

  Roy’s voice was beginning to pierce the music and conversation, Winslow pulled him farther away from the festivities and said in a fervent whisper, “Yeah, he’s gay.”

  “And he fucked me, didn’t he?”

  “Don’t go there, Roy. Just believe that you drank too much, passed out, and nothing happened.”

  “But something did happen!”

  “And now you’re a TV star.”

  “Yeah, but at what price?”

  “There’s always a price, kid. Everyone in Hollywood’s made his or her deal with the devil. But unlike in Faust, this town is full of devils and we’re forced to deal again and again.”

  Unfortunately for Roy, his deal with the devil was a bust. When the pilot was finished and screened for a test audience they hated it.

  Roy’s agent gave him the news. Told him the test screening was so bad, Roy would be considered damaged goods by the networks for a while. Suggested he get back that waiter’s job.

  Roy left messages for Winslow, messages that were ignored.

  Tried to call Jerry, silence.

  Roy knew he’d been fucked. Emotionally by Winslow. Literally by Jerry. He wanted to get even but didn’t know how.

  Violence didn’t even occur to him. He was young and still had his whole career ahead of him. So he decided to wait until he was famous then use his power to destroy them.

  But a couple of things went wrong. First, Jerry was murdered. Found stabbed to death in his apartment. Police suspected robbery; Roy suspected an actor who’d also been ‘roofed’ and had the guts to do what Roy had not. Second, Roy didn’t get famous. And he now realized he never would.

  Winslow and Jerry weren’t the only ones to fuck him, just the first. So it was time to balance the books. If he couldn’t be famous, at least he’d be rich. And get even in the process.

  Lady Gaga finished “Poker Face” as Roy remembered getting even with Barry Winslow—those delicious last few moments on the balcony. Roy relished the look on Winslow’s face as he pitched back over the rail. Savored the scream. But he didn’t watch him land. No time. He had too much to do before Kincaid made his way up.

  First stop, the office. Roy typed a suicide note into the computer:

  I’m sorry. Forgive me.

  Not the most literary of efforts, he knew, but all someone who’d blurted out a clichéd, “Please, don’t kill me,” deserved.

  Next stop, the bedroom. Roy wanted Gideon and the cops to suspect suicide, at least for a little while, so he had to get rid of the suitcase. Suicide victims don’t pack for vacations before offing themselves. Roy threw the clothes into the valise and stuffed it in the back of the closet.

  Just outside the bedroom door, Roy stopped. His eyes went to the bookcase, to the shelf of DVDs. To the copy of Ramrod. Winslow would never be able to send him a copy now, so Roy took the tape, leaving a spot between the other two pilots, Dead Run and Shadow Chaser. He pushed the two DVDs together. No one would suspect anything was missing.

  Not bad, Roy thought as he rushed out the condo’s door, less than a minute after Winslow’s “suicide.” He mashed the elevator call button. Moments later there was a DING and the door opened. Roy didn’t get on the elevator; he was planning to take the stairs. He hoped Kincaid was standing in the lobby waiting for an elevator and would notice the car stopped at twenty-eight. That ought to confuse the shit out of him.

  Roy took to the fire stairs to freedom. After dumping the gloves and surgical boots in a couple of dumpsters, he congratulated himself on a job well done.

  Roy picked his way through David Hunter’s rose bushes to a stand of magnolias planted outside the kitchen. Through the mullioned windows, he saw a handful of servants preparing hors d’oeuvres as Margot and Mila dropped frozen strawberries into glasses of champagne. Francis, Marty, and Clint stood on the patio smoking Cuban cigars.

  As Roy rounded the house, he found most of the guests gathered in the backyard watching Lady Gaga rock out.

  Roy stepped from the shadows into the crowd. He was dressed like he belonged. Hell, he looked like he belonged. He was Hollywood handsome with a thousand watt smile.

  Now, where was she?

  His eyes picked through the crowd. Movie stars. Directors. Producers. Writers. Studio executives. Agents. Managers. Personal trainers. The food chain in all its glory.

  Finally he spotted her. Jennifer. Sitting alone, poolside. She looked jealous. Staring at birthday boy David, probably wondering why he was sitting next to Kristen instead of her.


  Roy was surprised, too. David had been quoted many times saying he loved Jennifer more than anything in the world.

  Roy drifted toward the pool. Jennifer flicked her brown eyes in his direction, figured he looked harmless enough, and then turned back to David. She looked so sad.

  Roy stood behind Jennifer. She stayed focused on David. Roy reached into his sports coat and opened the sealed plastic bag holding the chloroform-soaked handkerchief. In one quick move he sat down on Jennifer’s chaise lounge while covering her nose and mouth with the handkerchief.

  She only struggled for an instant before her body went limp. Roy scooped her up and slipped her beneath his coat. She fit easily; after all, Jennifer only weighed four pounds. Four pounds of purebred miniature poodle.

  Roy dropped the envelope containing the ransom note on the chaise lounge and casually worked his way around the side of the house, through the hedge, into the neighbor’s yard and down the mansion-lined street to his SL550.

  He’d done it again. Another perfect kidnapping. And, with any luck, another perfect murder.

  Wake Up Call

  I slept like shit. Barry Winslow kept invading my dreams, jolting me awake. I saw him flying through the air, screaming.

  And that was the problem. He was screaming. Most people who commit suicide jumping off buildings don’t scream. They want to die. But when Winslow jumped he sounded like Pavarotti digging for an encore.

  Maybe somebody had pushed him.

  I finally climbed out of bed at about four o’clock and fired up the computer. I raided a few data banks and discovered that Winslow had three accounts at Chase, but they totaled a little more than twelve hundred dollars. I also found records for his personal services corporation, Barwin. He had a pension plan once worth over 1.3 million. But he had been taking early withdrawals over the past year and its current value was less than fifty thousand dollars. Winslow had serious money troubles.

  And that spells motive. So maybe somebody hadn’t pushed him.

  He did lie to me, I thought. He said he was outside the Cinerama Dome when the kidnapper stole my car. I could tell he was lying, and his assistant, Maggie, lied too. He had no alibi at the time the body was stolen. He has to be guilty, right? I needed to talk to Maggie. So I woke up my pal with Paramount Studio Security, got Maggie’s address, and, Starbucks drink in hand, knocked on her apartment door at seven-fifteen.