by Lee Goldberg
"But I left my wife for you," he said. "How can you do this to me?"
She shrugged. "Television is a brutal business."
Oh, did she have balls. He taught her everything she knew about television. And he didn't do it so she could use it against him. He'd given her everything, his trust, his knowledge, his love, even a 1962 TV Guide fall preview edition.
She wasn't going anywhere, except right back down to the script-reading department.
"You don't know brutal, baby." DeBono said. "You have two more years left on your contract, and you're going to spend the next 730 days washing cars in the parking lot and wishing you hadn't betrayed me."
She smiled at him. "You try and enforce that contract, and I'll sue you for sexual harrassment."
"Bullshit. What we did was consensual. Besides, the only people who know about us are you and me."
"Not exactly," she said. "Remember last month, went you bent me over my desk after the affiliates meeting and fucked me? And I was saying, Oh God, no, no, no?"
The memory of it made him even harder, despite his anger. "You were afraid you'd come too soon, and miss out on all the fun."
"That's what you thought," she said, "but I'm not sure the people who heard it on my speaker phone thought the same thing."
His face flushed with anger. "You left your speaker phone on?"
"I also left it on that day you came into my office and pinched my nipples until I cried."
"You begged me to do that."
"That was before I turned the speaker on."
"You bitch," he swung his hand to slap her, but she caught him by the wrist and twisted his arm at such a painful angle, it brought him whimpering to his knees.
"I'm going and I'm taking Sexual Surrogate with me," she said. "You ought to retire while UBC is still on top, because it won't be for long."
Kim released his arm and walked out, pleased with herself. She'd brought Don DeBono to his knees already, and it wasn't even sweeps yet.
ACT ONE
Chapter One
Six Months Later
When Barnaby Jones looked at Eleanor Roosevelt, he mentally undressed her with his eyes, but only so he could mentally dress himself in her discarded underwear. It helped him keep the energy up during the day's scenes, which was getting more difficult with each new each episode of The Young Barnaby Jones Chronicles.
It wasn't playing youthful Barnaby that bothered Spike Donovan, it was having to play the part in Vancouver, BC far away from warm, seasonless Los Angeles, his Brentwood condo, his Porsche convertible, and his walk-in closet of women's lingerie, collected slowly and methodically over the years.
Lately, the costume department had started locking the wardrobe trailer between shots in a futile attempt to prevent any more women's clothing from disappearing. But Spike wouldn't be stopped so easily. If he couldn't spend a few hours each evening in women's clothing, his performance would suffer, and not just in front of the camera, either. He was America's newest young heart-throb, but since he'd been up here, lingerie-less, he'd hardly throbbed at all.
Which was why he put on a fake mustache and beard, slipped out of his Sutton Place Residence suite, and headed for the rental car he'd stashed in a garage off of bustling Robson Street. To get to his car, he had to pass by a mobbed Starbucks, which was in heated competition with the Starbucks directly across the street. The coffee war in Vancouver was that fierce.
He wanted a Mocha Frappucino Swirl, but he decided to get it on the way back. Coffee always tasted so much better when he was wearing panties.
Once in his rented Contour, he drove over the bridge to the North Shore. The studio abutted a suburban shopping center and looked like just another office park. It had none of grandeur or sprawl of a real studio. No one would ever mistake Universal, Paramount, Pinnacle or Fox for an office park. He simply didn't get a thrill passing through the gate, and even less of one deprived of his garters. But that was about to change.
He parked beside the White Spot, a vinyl-and-plastic restaurant he ate at only once. They served a house wine that tasted so bad, he thought he'd accidentally drank the salad dressing. But while he was gagging, he looked out the window and noticed the building blocked the view from the street of a corner of the studio fence.
Certain that no one was looking, he slipped a pair of bolt cutters under his jacket and sprinted to the fence. Unlike Hollywood, the fence was a simple cyclone job. No barbed wire. No electric charge. Not even a camera. There weren't a lot of people interested in stealing a peek at a Canadian star, if there even was such a thing.
Spike tossed the bolt cutters over, climbed the fence, then scrambled between the soundstages to the dressing rooms and trailers parked behind them.
A few minutes later, he was outside the wardrobe trailer, pinching the cheapo padlock off with the bolt cutters. He quietly opened the door, slipped inside, and closed it behind him.
The trailer was windowless and narrow, but very tall. When he turned on the lights, he found himself standing in an aisle between two rows of clothes and accessories. The trailer was stacked so high with goodies, there were ladders on wheels and rails running the entire length.
It was a close as he could get to actually being in his own closet. Amidst the tweed jackets, stacks of Fedoras, Nazi regalia, and two-tone shoes, he found a wide selection of women's clothing from the 30s and 40s. Dresses, gowns. Hats with scarves draped around them. High heels of every shape and size. He sorted through them all before finding the right outfit: a classic, Victor Steibel evening gown, long, back-less, slinky, seamless. Perfect. He quickly stripped naked, pulled the floor-length dress over his head, and turned to admire himself in the full-length mirror.
The dress clung to his skin and puddled seductively at his feet, the satin sheen reflecting the light of the single bulb. Goosebumps rose on his exposed shoulders and arms, but it wasn't from the cold night air. Spike turned and looked over his shoulder, marveling at the rippling muscles of his back, exposed in the wide, plunging V-cut.
There was a bright flash of light. For a moment, Spike thought it was a revelation, then saw in his reflection that it was a Nikon, held by a man in a Cerruti suit emerging from his hiding place in the Nazi regalia behind him.
"You don't have the body to carry off that gown," the man said, "but it will still look good in The Inquirer."
Spike mustered up his voice, and tried to strike a heroic young Barnaby Jones pose. "But that's not what you're after, is it? Inquirer reporters shop at Wal-Mart, not Cerruti."
"The Company would like to represent you," the man proffered a card, which introduced him as Chick Lansing. "If you decline, this film goes to every newspaper and magazine in the country."
Spike studied the card. "I just signed with William Morris."
"That's your problem," the agent said. "I'd love stick around, have a get-to-know you meeting, discuss projects, possibilities and potentials, but I've been locked in here for five hours without a toilet. Give me a call, we'll take a chopper to Victoria for lunch."
Chick smiled, opened the trailer door, and walked right into a fist. The agent fell straight back, his head clunking as it hit the floor, his nose a bloody splatter on his face. A puddle of urine spread underneath the unconscious agent, soiling his Cerruti.
Spike looked up, astonished, to see a figure framed in the doorway against the bright, full moon. As the big, broad-shouldered man stepped in, Spike wondered whether he was saved, or trading up to something worse.
"Who are you?"
"Charlie Willis. I'm in charge of special security for Pinnacle Pictures. We were concerned something like this would happen."
Charlie snatched the camera off the floor. "You want these pictures for yourself, or would you like me to destroy them?"
"That depends," Spike thought about it for a moment. "How do I look?"
Charlie studied him. "Not bad for a guy in a dress."
"Do you know how to focus one of those?"
Charlie
nodded.
"This will only take a sec," Spike hurried into the back of the trailer. "Stay right there, let me find a pair of heels."
* * * * * *
Tourists hoping to see stars were wasting their money going to Los Angeles. They could take all the bus tours in town and buy every "map to the stars homes" ever printed and still not see a single celebrity.
While the business was still based in LA, and the stars still lived there, it's not where they worked. It was just too expensive to make TV shows and movies there. If you really wanted to see stars, you had to go to Canada, where an American buck magically transformed into a buck forty.
There were more stars per square block in Vancouver than anywhere else in the world, and most of them were in the lobby of the Sutton Place Hotel, formerly known as Le Meridien, still known as The Beverly Hills Hotel, BC.
You could bump into Robert DeNiro at the chocolate lovers buffet, run into Richard Grieco at the payphones, or collide with Annette Bening coming out of the elevator. In the bar, you could fight over almonds with John Goodman, or sing a few show-tunes with George Segal at the piano.
Or you could wander down a few blocks to the less swanky, more tacky, Pacific Palisades, and hob-nob with the assistant directors, writers, producers, and this week's X-Files guest-stars.
Charlie Willis spent a lot of his time between the two hotels, so much so, that he kept rooms at both. He never knew when he'd have to hide someone's illicit lover from a visiting spouse, stash a drunken actor from public view, or hold someone against their will until he could solve their problem.
He had come to think of himself as less of a security man than a babysitter. Actors, writers, directors, the whole crazy bunch of them, were just children who looked like adults. Hollywood conspired to make them think they actually were adults. He saw it as his job to remind them they weren't, and to provide order and discipline in their lives.
And the truth was, he enjoyed it. It fell somewhere between his two previous professions: being a real cop on the Beverly Hills Police Force and a make-believe one as the star of TV show My Gun Has Bullets. He still protected people, only now he didn't risk his life doing it.
The talent, as they were called, were spoiled, arrogant, self-destructive, egotistical, and entirely transparent. Most of the time, Charlie protected them from themselves.
"It's none of my business if you want to wear women's clothing," Charlie told Spike, who sat beside him at Starbucks, nursing his second Mocha Frappucino Swirl. "But you're going to get into trouble if you aren't more discreet."
Everyone had their little quirks, and in the whole scheme of things, wearing panties wasn't so bad. Charlie would rather deal with an actor with a ladies undy fetish than one with a cocaine habit, gambling problem, or a taste for S&M.
"I was desperate," Spike said.
"Next time, come to me," Charlie said. "Give me a list, and your sizes, and I'll be glad to get you whatever you need."
Spike smiled warmly at Charlie. "You'd do that for me?"
Charlie shrugged. Spike was a decent kid, quirks aside, and a lot nicer than a lot of actors he dealt with. "It's my job."
"You're a nice guy, Charlie. You don't find many in this business. My agent at William Morris is another one. We connected right away. As friends first, agent and client second. Our relationship isn't just about him making his ten percent off me. We talk about goals, feelings, art. That's why I don't want to leave."
"Then don't," Charlie said.
"You don't understand," Spike set aside his coffee. "The Company wants me."
"Forget about Chick Lansing. He's a sleazebag. He won't bother you again."
"There are other agents at The Company," Spike said. "They don't give up easily."
Charlie sighed wearily. "If you don't mind me saying so, you're falling into their trap. They're agents, Spike, that's all. Talent representatives who find you job opportunities and take ten percent of your income in return. They work for you. You're in charge."
"What if they come back?" Spike said. "What if The Company doesn't take no for an answer?"
"Then they have to deal with me," Charlie replied. Spike didn't look convinced. "They aren't going to bother you again, and if they do, I'll handle it."
"The Company plays rough."
Rough. Charlie shook his head and took a sip of his coffee. The people in the entertainment business had no perspective. They attached such grave importance to trivial things just so they could believe that what they do - providing entertainment, a fleeting distraction from real life - wasn't trivial. If entertainment was important, then everything attached to it had to be, too.
"Relax," Charlie said. "It's just television. It's not life and death."
Spike nodded, unconvinced, and ordered another Mocha Frappucino Swirl.
* * * * * *
Charlie sat on an uncomfortable bench at the police station, putting a few more wrinkles in his wrinkled khakis, trading smiles with the officers he had come to know over the last few months. In general, he found Canadians to be among the friendliest people he had ever met. So much so, he feared for them.
It wasn't the massive influx of Chinese and Korean immigrants that worried him. Nor was it the threat of French Canadian succession, the rampant Americanization of the culture, or high cholesterol in back bacon.
With Hollywood invading their city, he figured it was only a matter of time before they all became either aspiring actors or aspiring writers. And those who didn't aspire to be part of the industry will want to feed off it, becoming as crass, greedy and self-serving as the people they hoped to profit from.
But until that dark day came, Charlie resolved to enjoy the city, its people, its clean air and its refreshingly delineated seasons for as long as he could.
"Eh, Charlie," Detective Scott MacPherson ambled up, a steaming Starbucks cup in one hand, an appreciative smile on his face. He reminded Charlie of Don Knotts on the old Andy Griffith Show. But it would be a mistake to take the resemblance too seriously. It was common knowledge that MacPherson, while off-duty and shopping for a six-pack and some smokes, single-handedly disarmed two drunken lumberjacks holding up a convenience store...without drawing his weapon or dropping his bag of groceries.
"When you apprehend a felon," MacPherson said, "it isn't necessary to bring us all Starbucks."
"I know how bad your coffee is," Charlie explained.
"That's a cliche," MacPherson sipped his Starbucks. "The idea that police precinct coffee is always awful, it's been done a million times. They did it every week on Barney Miller. Fact is, our coffee here is great. I grind the beans myself."
"In your bare hands, seeing as how you're so tough."
"That's what gives it that masculine flavor."
"You've never seen Barney Miller."
"So?"
"You've been taking screenwriting classes, haven't you?" Charlie was disappointed. "Didn't I warn you about that?"
MacPherson shrugged. "It's not a crime."
"It should be."
Charlie stood up, stretched, and checked his watch. "I guess we'd better go if we're going to make the LA flight."
MacPherson motioned to two officers, who disappeared into the back where the holding cells were. The detective knew what Charlie's job was, but never once asked, or seemed to care, who or what Charlie was protecting. He simply trusted that Charlie was doing the right thing.
"We're shooting The Young Barnaby Jones Chronicles in Gastown for a couple nights next week," Charlie said. "We could use some crowd control, if you're interested in a little honest moonlighting."
"Hey, that'd be great," MacPherson said. "Thanks a lot."
Chick Lansing emerged from the holding cell, escorted by the officers, a big stain on his crotch, his nose taped under a fat wad of gauze. His wrists were handcuffed in front of him.
"This is an outrage," Chick snortled through the gauze. "I demand to see a lawyer."
One of the officers tossed Charlie a set of c
uff keys. He caught them and shoved them in his pocket. "No time, Chick, you have a plane to catch."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You have a choice, Chick. You can sit in jail in your soiled pants until someone from The Company flies up to bail you out. Or you can come with me."
The officer handed Charlie a manila envelope containing Chick's personal items. Charlie waited for a moment, looking at Chick. "What's it going to be?"
Chick sagged, defeated, and nodded. Charlie headed outside. Chick followed him to a Ford Taurus parked at the curb.
"Take me back to my hotel," Chick said. "The Sutton Place Residence suites."
"You've checked out. Your bags are packed and in the trunk." Charlie opened the passenger door and pushed Chick in, slamming the door behind him.
Charlie got in, rolled down the window so the car wouldn't smell like a urinal, and headed down Granville Street, which would take him straight to the airport. During the half-hour drive, Charlie kept his face turned to the window and told Chick how it was going to be. He'd been charged with burglary, lewd conduct, and resisting arrest. The police were releasing him into Charlie's custody on the condition that Chick leave the country immediately and never return.
"If you come back," Charlie said, "they'll prosecute you for your crimes."
"This is a travesty of justice," Chick whined as they pulled up outside of the airport. "I'm going to sue you, the studio, the hotel and the Canadian government. You will rue this day."
Charlie popped the trunk, got out, and handed the luggage over to the skycap, then came around and opened the door for Chick.
Chick jerked his head towards the skycap. "Stop them — they're taking my luggage!"
"You tip them a couple bucks and they put it on the plane for you."
"But I have to change my clothes."
"Sorry, we don't have time."
"I pissed my pants," Chick protested. "You can't let me go on the plane in pissed pants."
Charlie looked at him. "I think you're missing the point."
"I'm a Company agent, god damn it. Do you know what that means?" Chick sat defiantly in the car, staring straight ahead. His thighs stung, his nose pulsated with pain, and it was time this studio tin-shield realized who he was dealing with. "I have drive-on privileges at every lot. I have my own table at Planet Hollywood. And Clive Odett returns my calls."
